


The Book of Secrets

by Rhys (rhyssj)



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Child Loss, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religion, Sexual Identity, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-04
Updated: 2003-06-04
Packaged: 2019-04-20 04:30:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 63
Words: 143,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14253075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhyssj/pseuds/Rhys
Summary: A pseudo-historical romance novel.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Story Notes:**
> 
> I tried to make this as historically accurate as possible without getting into the meaty history of it, which involved a lot of checking for dates of usage in the Oxford English Dictionary and a lot of google searching for dates of invention. I admit I am likely wrong in some cases. There is a reason I refer to this story as a "Pseudo-Historical Romance Novel."
> 
> I am indebted to R.F. Foster's _Modern Ireland 1600-1972_.
> 
> **Acknowledgements:**
> 
> First and foremost, thank you to Dacey for holding my hand from the very beginning. I might have birthed it, but she was the midwife and I couldn't have done it without her.
> 
> Thanks to Helen, for inspiring me, and thanks to Pet, for introducing me to Loreena McKennitt's "The Highwayman" at the right point in my life. (Which, no, really doesn't have anything to do with the story).
> 
> Thanks to Arsenic, Kim, Jenn, Lily, Fae, Merry, Dacey, Hammerhead22, Dine, Pet, Christy, Lexy, Mel and anyone else I forgot (or didn't know about) for humouring me when I chucked the AU at them and said, "READ IT ... NOW," and they, the kind people they are, encouraged me to the finish.
> 
> Thanks to Dacey, Jenn and Kim for the beta. Dudes, you are amazing.
> 
> Thanks to Chaos & Raven and Christy for the French translations. I am a Bad Canadian.
> 
> Thanks to Dacey for the fabulous graphic.
> 
> I would also like to thank the academy, my mother, Chris Kirkpatrick, Chris Kirkpatrick's mother, Mel Gibson for "Braveheart," that guy who did "Rob Roy," Liam Neeson and my dentist.

With every cramp of her body, she remembered. Every breath that escaped her lips was a constant reminder of lingering doom and the realisation that the child in her, raging so fiercely to get out, could easily signal their ruin. Her husband waited beside her, not touching, only watching, as the pulse of life quaked between her legs. The pain was tremendous. Her fourth born, and, if she was blessed, it would be a girl. If she was cursed, a boy. 

Her husband’s mother, long since widowed, wiped the sweat from her face and took her hand, squeezing when the agony crested into blinding stabs of horror in her belly. Outside, it rained as it had been raining for weeks, hard and unending. She longed to go out and cool in the showers, but the impending birth of her child kept her inside and on the ground. With every flux of pain, she knew she was that much closer. 

Her other children stayed outside in the dreadful weather, her two boys and their sister, and she longed to gather them close, to protect them and hold them. She focussed on them instead of herself or the child within her. She prayed the babe was a girl and tried to ignore her husband as he examined his blade. Long and silver, it glistened in the light from the candles. If she touched her hand to it, she knew it would slice her skin deep enough to draw blood. The dagger would kill if it needed to. In that moment, she was keenly aware of its sharp edge. 

With one last push, the babe delivered in the early morning. Exhausted, she lay back and breathed. Vaguely, she heard her husband’s mother say, "a boy," and she closed her eyes. _A boy_ , she thought, _I have delivered a boy._ A third boy. A curse to the family. If she believed it, it did not matter. Her husband believed it. Her child, a boy. 

In her mind, she had already named him Joshua. 

"I want to see him," she said and held out her arms. Her husband looked at her and shook his head, but she persisted. "He is my child. Show him to me." She had never asked for anything but this. She had been a good wife, but this was her child, her flesh and blood. 

The babe was pink and small and had not cried at all. She took him into her arms and wiped the grime from his face. His eyes were the bluest eyes she had ever seen, and he looked at her as if he already knew his destiny. She touched her fingers to his soft lips, and he suckled. He was a beautiful baby, her third born son. This child was destined to be a curse. 

_How can this child be a curse?_

"Give him to me," her husband said. She looked at his blade then shook her head. She would not. He would have to kill her first, and she told him that, keeping her voice steady. "That child will ruin us all. There will be others. Girls. He is nothing special." 

"He is," she insisted and ignored the look of her husband’s mother. A betrayal, she knew, of the deepest kind. It was not befitting of a woman to go against her husband, but he meant to kill this hapless babe, and that she could not allow. "I want to keep him. His name is Joshua." 

"You cannot," her husband’s mother said. "You know you cannot." 

"No one need ever know," she said and rubbed her thumb over his soft cheek. The hair on his head was long and dark. She knew this child, if he was allowed to grow, would be beautiful beyond imagination, inside and out. "We will veil him, cover his face and his body. Who would know but us? Who would ever tell our secret?" 

"He must be killed," her husband insisted. The blade in his hand glimmered. 

"This is your son," she said and protectively held the child to her breast. She would sooner throw herself on the dagger than let it touch Joshua. "But he can be your daughter. He is such a pretty child. No one would ever question it." 

"He is a curse," her husband said. 

"He is my child." 

And she did not look away even when he raised the dagger. She held her son tightly in her arms and knew, if the dagger was to touch him, it would go through her first. The babe remained quiet in her arms, his body warm and small and living. She could not let him die. 

The blade pierced her hand then stopped, and she never looked away. She could feel the warm blood drip onto her naked lap, the quake of pain strong in her arm, but still, she held her child and looked at her husband. Slowly, he withdrew the blade. When he stepped back, she knew she had won.


	2. Chapter 2

It was warm in the tent, the balmy summer weather highly uncomfortable, but in her last moments, her mother complained of the cold. Jacie dipped a cloth into the water basin and washed her face. Under her breath, Jacie softly sang all the songs she knew. When they ran out, she sang them over again. Under her veil, her skin was sticky. 

"My child," her mother said. Jacie stopped singing and waited for her to continue. Her voice was soft and unsteady. There was death all around them, waiting to strike. Jacie could feel it in her bones. "In my chest, below my clothes, there is a book. Get it for me." 

Jacie opened the wooden box and carefully lifted the folded dresses into her lap. Some of them were extraordinarily fine, soft like lamb’s wool and embroidered with shimmery thread. Underneath, there was a book that had been bound in leather. Taking it from the chest, Jacie set the dresses back and returned to her mother. 

"This is yours. I wrote it for you," she said quietly, and Jacie nodded. She could not read, but she knew her mother could. Jacie knew little about her mother’s past save for the fact she had been a noblewoman before her love of music took her into the arms of Jacie’s father. She was educated, even if few people realised it. Jacie knew because she had seen her mother writing by the fireside as Jacie danced. "Hide it from your father. Never let him see it." 

"Never," Jacie promised and took the book, wrapping it in an old shawl and tucking it under her nightshirts. When she returned to her mother’s side, her mother held out her hand, and Jacie gripped it. She sang again until her throat was raw and aching. It would not be long now. Her mother seemed so far away, her eyes mostly closed in the dim light. Jacie waited. 

"Take off your veil," her mother said, and Jacie removed it. Her mother’s fingers touched her skin and felt cool against it. "My beautiful child." Jacie smiled sadly and shook her head. "My sweet, beautiful child. I wish I could stay here for you." 

Jacie nodded. "I know." 

In her last moments, her mother looked at her and said, "I love you," and then, "Joshua." Jacie hushed her, even as the breath rushed from her mouth. She moved her hand on Jacie’s face, and Jacie kissed the scarred flesh with soft lips before it dropped away. In the stillness that followed, Jacie cried softly to herself then covered her face with a cloth and waited for her father to come, so she could tell him that her mother was gone. 

The next day, they buried her deep in the ground. Jacie watched from the tent. Her father had told her to stay inside. They sang for her and blessed her body before covering her with linen. Jacie sang with them, quietly so they could not hear. Her sisters cried together. Her brothers remained stoic, both faces locked like stone. Their wives and children lingered behind them and wept. All around, people stood and witnessed the burial. 

Later, they sang and danced and ate. Jacie remained inside the tent and slept fitfully. It was overly warm, and she was hungry. Arthur, her eldest brother, came in with a plate of stew and bread. He woke her from her nap, but he said nothing. They rarely did. It seemed to her, sometimes, that she did not exist at all. 

She sat up and quietly ate, listening to the music they made. She wanted to dance, but there were too many people, and she was only allowed to dance by the fireside late at night. The bread was stale but good, and the stew was mostly water with a few pieces of meat. Most likely scraped from the bottom of the cauldron, for leftover stew was fed to the least deserving. 

When she was finished, Jacie put the plate outside the tent and sat. She thought about working on her sister’s bridal dress, but the light was too dim, and she did not want to strain her eyes. Maggie, the eldest girl, had been married four years, though she remained childless. Elspeth, only ten months younger than Jacie, had married last year and was already expecting a babe. Mary, a year younger than Elspeth, was set to marry soon if she could find a husband. Her two youngest sisters, Isabel and Laura, were too young to be wed but would the moment they were of age. 

Jacie was newly seventeen and still unmarried, though she dreamed of having a husband and giving him children. Her father told her, as often as he could it seemed, that she would never marry. She was disfigured, he said. No one would ever want her. It would be worse now without her mother to spare her the brunt of her father’s ire. Jacie’s belly twisted at the thought. 

The music and the singing continued on outside. Jacie imagined dancing for the husband she would never have. She knew all the dances. Her father had not wanted her to learn, but she mimicked her sisters and did it better. Her mother had allowed it but only under the veil of nightfall. Now, Jacie was not sure if she would ever dance again. 

Jacie peeled the covering off her face and breathed in the stale air. Her skin prickled with sweat. Lifting her hands, she pulled the shroud from her head and folded it. She touched her hair and felt the oily weight between her fingers. When she moved to her face, she thought, _I do not feel ugly_. The skin was soft. Perhaps, the angles were a bit too harsh, but there were no scars. She wondered if the scars were under her clothes where she could not see them. She had looked before at her naked body, and it seemed smooth and flawless. 

Her chest was flat except for a slight swell under her nipples, but she had seen women, girls with pregnant bellies and protective husbands, as level as her. When she had asked about it, her mother had said just that: "You are still young, my sweet child. Love your body for what it is." Jacie tried very hard to love herself, but her heart seemed shallow. She did not have enough love in her to accept her deformity, whatever it was. It was beauty she wanted. 

"Cover yourself," Maggie hissed as she crawled into the tent. Her face was wet. With tears or sweat, Jacie did not know. Quickly, Maggie gathered blankets in her arms. Jacie unfolded the cloth and ducked under it, settling it over her hair. The veil across her face smelled stale, but she fastened it anyway. Maggie stared at her, frowned, then left again, fading back into the night. 

Outside, Jacie heard a voice other than Maggie’s speak. 

"Mama would want her out here with her family." 

_Laura_ , Jacie thought, _or Isabel_. She folded her hands in her lap and listened. Jacie wanted nothing more than to sing for her mother, to offer her own farewell and, perhaps, find comfort. Inside, her heart was broken. She wanted nothing more than to offer a proper goodbye. 

"Ach, shut your mouth, girl. What do you know of it? Get back to the fireside. If I catch you around here again, I will be sure to tell father. Do you want him to beat you for disobeying?" 

Jacie waited, but nothing else was said and the tent stayed closed. Again, she was alone. 

Outside, people mourned. Inside, it was the same.


	3. Chapter 3

"Enjoyed yourself, did you?" Chris asked when Joe approached, a slight saunter to his walk. Joe merely grinned and tied his sack to his horse’s saddle. "Aye, I can see you did. Shameful, Joe, shameful. Should we be expecting another stop added to this journey of ours?" 

Joe laughed. "I hope not. Though it cost me dearly, we used half the lemons in Ireland." 

"As if that has worked before," Chris replied. 

"A man can hope," Joe said. He drank from his canteen then offered it to Chris, who declined. "She did send enough food to keep us living for the next week. That, my friend, says more than words could." 

"Aye. Bribery that should she find herself with child in the next month, she expects you to come back and at least say hello to the poor babe." 

"I always do." 

"All twenty of them," Chris replied, and Joe laughed again. 

"Three, Chris." 

"And all girls! What good are you, Joe, if you cannot manage a son?" 

Joe swung up onto his horse, bracing himself when the beast stepped backwards, and then grinned at Chris, big and toothy. "At least I know where to put my cock." 

"Any hole you can find. Aye, I know. Spare me," Chris said, laughing. Joe was a good friend but a bit of a man-whore, going above and beyond any man Chris had met before. He had three illegitimate daughters scattered across the island, all of them swarthy and cheerful. As much as he could, he took care of them, and it was for that reason, among others, that Chris liked him so much. "Are you ready to move, or are there women you have not yet charmed?" 

"Countless, but they are all married." 

Chris laughed then urged his horse into movement. There were townspeople gathering nearby, most likely to drive them out, and Chris always preferred leaving on his own account. Joe was seemingly oblivious to it all, though Chris suspected he merely did not care what anyone thought of him. He had always said Chris took things too personally. 

They rode for a few hours until the sun started to dip. Under a big tree, they slept for the night, a modest fire burning nearby that would fizzle out come morning. The next few days were spent travelling, stopping once or twice to perform. Magicians, or so they liked to think. Joe had taken alchemy in his schooling, and Chris merely had his wits about him. It was easy to make people believe whatever they wanted to believe. 

On the fifth night, they found themselves nearing a camp of tents and caravans. _Travellers like us, no doubt, and a marriage,_ Chris thought. He recognised the joyous festivities, for they were a favourite source of food and drink for them. The sun was only beginning to set in the distance, the sky lit with deep hues of reds and oranges. 

"Food," Joe said and lifted his eyebrows. 

"I like how you think. We will wait for nightfall then help ourselves," Chris said, his stomach rumbling under his shirt. The food from Joe’s latest conquest had not lasted as long as they hoped. Though they had coin as well as the skills to get whatever they could not buy, neither of them were impressive cooks. It was much easier to invite themselves to a wedding. 

Chris settled down in the grass and napped until Joe shook him awake. The sky was black as pitch, but Chris could still see Joe’s grin. Chris slapped him on the back when he stood. Lowly, Joe laughed. They were not thieves but neither were they honest men. Their lifestyles did not permit it. 

"They probably have meat," Joe said, "and women. What more could a man want?" 

"If he is you, nothing," Chris replied and laughed when Joe elbowed him. 

They made their way to the camp and parted. It was easier to blend in if they were not together. Chris helped himself to the dinner. The food was warm between his fingers. The bride was easily identifiable, a young girl, very pretty, and the groom seemed to know it. Chris caught sight of Joe a few more times, mingling with the guests. He was good at that. Persuasion. Joe had gotten them out of more than one sticky spot. 

Chris gathered more food onto a piece of cloth then wrapped it. He wiped his hands on his breeches before he walked towards the tents and the caravans and into the dark night. Nobody noticed him. Chris did not intend to steal anything, anyway. He just wanted to take a look around. That was all. He was the curious sort, if anyone thought to wonder why. 

Light wafted out from under the edge of one tent, and Chris stepped a bit closer. Through the front flap, he saw a candle on a small table but nothing else. _Dangerous_ , he thought, _to leave a flame unattended._ Chris ducked inside and looked around. It seemed to be a girls’ quarters, colourful fabrics folded on a dark chest, a ring of flowers on the ground. There was a half-finished rug on one of the bedrolls, the weaving intricate and bright. He picked it up and looked at it before he set it down. 

The candle flickered, and Chris turned quickly, hand at his dagger. It was just a girl. He wondered how long she had been there and how he had not noticed her before. _Her eyes are light. Blue_ , Chris thought, _clear like the sky_. Strange, that he could tell the colour in such poor light. 

"I am not a thief," Chris said. Hesitantly, she nodded. The lower half of her face was covered with a veil so only her eyes showed at all. Likewise, her hair was entirely shrouded, though Chris could tell she had a lot of it and wore it loose beneath the cloth. A few errant strands escaped the prison, twisting like vines down her face. "Do you speak?" 

She shook her head. 

Chris regarded her quietly, the skittish way in which she kept looking to the entrance of the tent, the manner in which she had pulled herself back. She was obviously scared of him. Everything about her body language told him that much, and Chris had long ago learned to read people’s intentions from how they held themselves before him. 

"I will not harm you," Chris said. "The party was dull. All those people, all my very dearest friends." Chris was sure to add that, though he well knew she probably realised he was lying. "Well, maybe that is not the whole truth. I came for the food." He patted his belly. 

She ducked her head, and he could not be sure, but he wanted to think she was laughing. He grinned at her and her gorgeous eyes. At once, Chris was struck by the sudden urge to see her face, to know whether she was beautiful all over. _Probably not_ , Chris thought, _seeing as she is kept so covered, but her eyes_. They were like windows to her soul. 

Chris opened his mouth to speak again, but the flap of the tent was drawn back, and he was on the ground, shoved into the bedding, before he could utter a word. The candle went out as it fell to the ground. He kept his face to the cloth, trusting the black of his hair to fade into dark. 

"Were you talking to someone?" The voice was decidedly female and stern. The girl’s mother, perhaps, or an older sister, an aunt. It was not a kind voice. There was an edge to it that Chris recognised as harsh and, if pushed, most likely very cruel. 

"No one," the girl said. She was close enough to him that she put a hand on his arm when he stirred. She had lied to him, and she was caught in it, but the steady pressure of her fingers convinced him to remain quiet. "My apologies. I forgot." 

"I brought you food, but I am not sure you deserve it." 

"My apologies," the girl repeated. Like a whisper on wind, her voice was soft and low. Lower, probably, than even Chris’s own, but Chris had long ago learned to tolerate his own oddity. Too small, too fey, too high-pitched, especially for being who he was. Chris knew a little about being hidden, too. "I forgot." 

"Perhaps, this will help remind you. I will feed the food to the beggars and the animals, who deserve it more than you." 

The tent flap closed, and Chris exhaled the breath he had been holding. It was eerily dark again, and he was not sure where he was in regards to the girl. At the woman’s words, she had pulled back her hand, and he had heard the unmistakable rustle of clothing. Slowly, he sat up. 

"I have food," Chris said, unfastening the satchel from his breeches. He reached out and found his hand pressed to the warm flat of her back. Quickly, he withdrew his touch. "I have no need of it. I stole it, anyway. I am a thief. I say I am not, but I am. Here." In the dark, he grappled for her hands. When he found them, Chris folded her fingers over the food. "Eat it, I beg of you. It is yours more than it is mine." 

"You do not seem like a thief," she said and sniffled. If he was more of a gentleman, he would have offered her a handkerchief, but he had already used it for the food. Instead, he said, 

"I am a terrible thief who confesses the minute he is caught. I only steal when I need it more. Occasionally, I even steal from the right people." If Chris had known, he would have stolen more food or a fancy dress for one of Joe’s women, preferably not from this girl but from the one who had come and gone. Anything, to retaliate for the wrong he had just witnessed. "Please, eat it. I will steal more on the way out, if it concerns you." 

"We can share," she said. "But I knocked over the light. I cannot see." 

"I can get more. I will be right back." 

Chris scrambled out of the tent, the candle gripped between his damp fingers. He was sweating. He moved carefully through the crowd, greeting people who spoke to him. He nodded at Joe, who lifted his cup. The line of his teeth glittered in the light from the fire. Quickly, Chris lit the candle and protected it with his palm. No one noticed him. It was a trick he had learned early. 

Chris found her where he had left her, and she let him in. He did not say anything as he set the candle down on the small table. Warm wax had dripped onto his fingers and he picked it off idly, waiting for her to eat. She opened the satchel and set it down beside the light. 

"Do you have a name?" Chris asked. 

"Do you?" She replied, looking over at him. He thought that she was laughing. "Jacie." 

"Chris," he said, reaching for a piece of bread. 

For a moment, Chris had thought to take her hand and kiss the back of it like gentlemen were wont to do. Before he could, Jacie took her own piece then looked at it as if she did not quite know what to do with it. Carefully, she lifted the veil from her mouth and slid the morsel underneath it. It dropped before he could see the pink curl of her lips. 

"You can remove it, if you want," Chris said. 

Jacie shook her head and continued to eat. His fingers lingering at his lips, Chris studied her profile. Her nose was big, but he did not see that as a reason to hide her face. Maybe she had been burned as a child. It happened more often than he wanted to think about. _But her eyes_. Chris could not stop staring even when caught. Evenly, he met her gaze. 

"Why do you wear it?" Chris asked before he could stop himself. Once it was out there, he could not bring himself to take it back. When she did not answer, he did not push it and returned to the food. Breaking off another hunk of bread, he also took a lukewarm potato between his fingers and let Jacie have the rest. She had a hearty appetite for a girl so thin. 

Outside, Chris could still hear the celebration, music and laughter so loud that he could not ignore them if he tried. If it had been his family, Chris would have wanted to be out there with them. Or he would have, at one early point in his life, before he realised he was unwelcome. The tent walls felt like a prison, and Chris knew he was some place where he was not permitted. 

"My father says I am ugly," Jacie finally said when the food was gone and she had folded up Chris’s handkerchief, holding it out to him. He took it, careful to let their fingers brush, and she briefly pressed into his skin before pulling her hands into her lap. "So I must be." 

"You have never seen your own face?" 

She shook her head. "No." 

"I thought all girls had mirrors." 

Jacie looked over at him, an eyebrow crooked, then she shrugged. "I found a mirror once, but my sister Maggie broke it before I could look. They say she brought seven years bad luck to the family, but we have been unlucky longer than that. I have heard them say it is me." 

Chris narrowed his eyes. "You are unlucky?" 

"I must be, if I am so ugly no one will look at me." 

"I do not believe in luck," Chris said. He did not like the dimness that had settled into her beautiful eyes, the dark looks of guilt and shame, both of which Chris was intimately familiar with. "Superstition, luck, magic. It is all used to make people believe things that are untrue." 

"You sound sure." 

"I am. Entirely," Chris assured her. "Let me see your face." 

"You should go," Jacie said quietly, lifting her fingers to her brow and covering her eyes. "Thank you for the food, but you really must leave. I will scream, if you do not, and my father will punish us both for what you have done. He is not a forgiving man." 

"I meant no offense," Chris said. "I simply do not believe it." 

"Believing it," Jacie said, "does not change the way it is. Please leave." 

"My apologies," Chris offered and pushed to his feet. _Her eyes_ , he thought again. Somehow, he knew they were blue like the sky and twice as breathtaking. If she was ugly, Chris did not know why it would matter. Her eyes held all the beauty a man could need.


	4. Chapter 4

"What bothers you?" Joe asked the next day, brushing the mane of his horse, Joseph the Third, as it tried to eat. The horse had been wild until Joe marched right up to it and tamed the beast all in a day. It allowed no one but Joe to ride it. Chris thought his own horse, Alistair, preferred Joe, too. 

Chris looked over to where he knew the camp was still set up. It was far in the distance, a mere speck on the horizon, but his mind was still there. He had stayed up half the night, twisting and turning, thinking about the girl with the beautiful blue eyes. 

"Where do you wish to go now?" Joe asked instead, moving his brush to Alistair, who tried to eat Joe’s hair. Chris feared that Alistair was half pig. Joe ignored the teeth and scratched Alistair’s belly, digging his fingers deep into the horse’s skin until he whinnied. "Chris." 

Chris lifted his head. 

"Chris, what bothers you?" Joe asked. He sat down next to Chris on the grass, and Chris looked at him briefly before returning his eyes to the camp. He trusted Joe to get it, regardless of how much guesswork prefaced Chris’s worry. "I will just sit here, until you tell me." 

Chris still said nothing. 

"We are going to play this game, are we? Suit yourself, Kilpatrick." 

Joe spoke through dinner, setting a pot to boil stew that they both knew would taste horrid. It was an unending stream of noise, a conversation created and carried by Joe and Joe alone. Chris accepted the bowl of stew, which was more like soup, and ate. Joe talked well into the night. He did not stop for breath. Finally, Chris put his hand on Joe’s arm and said, "stop." 

"I told you I would not travel with you when you got like this," Joe said. Chris’s moods could be uncontrollable, this Chris knew as much as he knew anything. They had been since he was a child. There were reasons, beyond Joe’s bastard children, why Chris often elected to stay behind and wait with the horses as Joe visited his women. "Did someone harm you?" 

"No," Chris said. "But I met someone." 

"A _woman_?" Joe asked. His voice came strange, but Chris paid it little mind. 

"Aye." Against the backdrop of night, Chris could see the fire roaring at the camp, tall and bright. When he held up his hand, the light was erased but not the memory of it. With a sigh, Chris bowed his head and put his fingers to his brow. "I cannot get her out of my head, Joe. She is right here, firm like a tree in the ground." 

"Does this girl have a name?" 

"Jacie." 

"Is she beautiful?" Joe asked. All of his women were, in the way that Joe liked: sturdy and large-breasted. Fair-haired or not, Joe was not picky, but they were all strong-willed, intelligent women. Chris had never found any of them particularly attractive. "Chris?" 

"They hide her behind a veil. She says she is ugly, but I cannot believe it. Her eyes, Joe," Chris said helplessly, holding out his hand then curling his fingers into a fist. "And she is so unhappy. They keep her caged in a tent like an animal." Chris paused. His soul felt heavy on his bones. "I want to take her away from anybody who would try to harm her." 

"Then marry her," Joe said, and Chris looked up at him so quickly that they hit their heads together with a loud clack. Chris did not realise Joe had been sitting so close. He scowled at him, but Joe refused to back down. "Go up to her father and ask for her hand." 

"It is not that easy," Chris said. 

"Then what can you do? You are not like me, Chris," Joe added quietly. Chris pinched his lips together. It was true. Chris would make no judgement on Joe, but he was not set out for a life of mistresses and casual women. "Then forget her, Chris." 

"I have tried. I cannot." 

"Then ask for her hand." 

"I have nothing to offer," Chris said. 

"The fact that you offer at all will hold its weight in gold, if what you say is true." 

Chris looked over at Joe, who rolled his eyes. They were not old friends by anyone’s standards, but there was no one whom Chris trusted more. _Marriage_. Chris could hardly fathom it. He had always assumed it would be just him and Joe for all eternity, or until the father of one of Joe’s conquests put a levy on their heads. Marriage, with a girl he barely knew but marriage nonetheless, was an option Chris had always thought closed to him. 

"Or we can steal her," Joe said. Chris could feel his grin cut into his face. He lifted his hand and pushed Joe away. Laughing, Joe draped an arm across Chris’s shoulder. "Chris, and I say this fondly, you are one of the most miserable men I have had the pleasure to meet. What harm would it do to ask?" 

"You ask, and the world bows at your feet. I ask, and laughter rings out," Chris said glumly. It was a truth so honest that it hurt to think about, and he was unhappy. He had been born unhappy. With Jacie, it had been different. Chris could not let himself believe in fairytales, but he trusted Joe when he did. "It is my shattered manhood you will have to pick up." 

"Is that a proposition, Kilpatrick?" Joe asked, grinning. 

Chris said nothing more. 

The decision was made. 

He would ask this girl to be his bride.


	5. Chapter 5

Jacie spent as much time sleeping as she could. They allowed her very little else. She longed to dance or sing, but her father kept a watchful eye on everything she did. There were moments when Jacie thought she was a ghost. No one noticed her, save for her father, to be cruel, or Maggie, to reprimand. And Chris, the strange thief who gave more than he took. 

The skins she slept on were the pale curls of a young sheep. The time she did not spend weaving, she spent carefully rubbing her cheek over the fur. Maggie had caught her more than once and forced her to cover all of her face again, but Jacie knew Maggie was with her father that night. Earlier, he had come to the tent with a matter of great urgency. 

Jacie woke when Maggie roughly shook her. "Get up," she said, "pack your things." 

When Jacie paused, Maggie tightened her grip and pushed her towards her stack of ragged dresses. Jacie hit her knee on the book hidden underneath them but was careful to not cry out. Instead, she gathered the cloth and her latest weave on a blanket and tied the corners together. Nothing else in the tent was hers. 

"Take off your veil," Maggie said, and it was no sooner removed that she started dragging a comb through Jacie’s hair, quick and rough. It was tangled and unruly, and Jacie’s head ached already, though she did not complain. "You do whatever he asks of you. If he deems you too ugly, you will not be welcomed back." 

"Who?" Jacie asked but she received no answer. The comb caught in a knot, and her head snapped back painfully. She whimpered slightly at that, but Maggie continued until, finally, she put down the comb. Jacie unlatched her fingers from where they pressed into her pack. Her knuckles had turned white. 

"Wait here. And cover yourself," Maggie added, disappearing outside. 

Jacie pulled the cloth back over her hair then draped the veil across her face. She picked up the comb and slipped it into her satchel. She waited. Outside, she could hear nothing. It did not sound like the camp was moving again. It sounded like the world was locked deep in sleep. 

"Come with me," Maggie said, when she came again. Jacie stood. When she stepped into the warm evening air, the grass felt cool beneath her feet, and she looked up at the stars. After music, it was what she missed the most. Her mother had known about pictures painted in the sky, and Jacie could see Orion from where she stood, so proud and brave. 

It was late at night. The moon sat high and bright in the sky. Maggie moved so fast that Jacie could scarcely keep up, but when they approached the fire, Jacie stopped abruptly. _Chris_. He was standing by her father and another man, shorter than both of them by at least two hands and much older. There was a forth man, his face hidden by the shadows, leaning against the willow tree that covered them all. When Jacie stepped forward at Maggie’s urging, Chris looked up and smiled at her. Jacie smiled back, forgetting he could not see her mouth. 

"Your hand," Maggie said and lifted it roughly. Chris walked closer and offered his own. Her palm rested on his knuckles. She remembered the warmth of his skin from when their fingers brushed; she took comfort in the slight familiarity. He smiled again at her. 

The older man began to read from his weathered book. His voice was loud like thunder in the night despite his harmless appearance. Jacie did not understand a word of it, but she nodded each time Maggie elbowed her roughly in the back. It seemed the proper response. Jacie was not wholly sure of what was happening, though she began to suspect as time pushed on. When the man wrapped their hands with an embroidered scarf, she knew even before her father said it. 

"This is your husband. Obey him." 

"Go," Maggie said and pushed her forward. Jacie looked at Maggie then braced when she was shoved again. Her father walked past her and said nothing else. "Go," Maggie repeated, and Jacie went, clutching her pack to her chest. She did not look back. 

Chris held out his hand, and Jacie stared at it. She glanced up at him, and he smiled again, so she held out her hand, too. It still shocked her when he twisted their fingers together. His skin was dry and warm, and his grasp was firm. Into the darkness, she let him lead her through the thick grass. She thought of Orion in the sky and tried to be brave, too.


	6. Chapter 6

She was disoriented when she first woke. It was morning, but that was all she knew for certain. The sun slipped in through the split in the tent, and it was warm on her face. Heart pounding, she lifted her fingers to her mouth then looked around for her veil. There were men’s clothes strewn about, stained and tattered. 

"Oh. You have awakened." 

Jacie put both hands over her face then lifted her knees. She buried herself in her skirt. She did not want him to see her, not yet. She had been told stories about beautiful princesses and ugly toad princes just as she had been told not to believe them. Her breath came rough and quick until Chris took her hand and pressed the veil to her palm. 

"I will not look at you until you are ready," Chris said. "I mean you no harm, Jacie." 

"I know," Jacie said. Her voice was warm against her knees. She heard him leave, and once she was sure, she put on the veil. The cloth smelled old and musty. The moment she could, she would wash it in the cool water of a river. It had been years since she had been allowed to go near one. She would put her feet in and let it wash them. 

There was a small fire burning. A big man with a beard and dark eyes sat by it, eating a piece of bread. Jacie looked up as Chris came over with food and a flask of water. He held them out, and she took the bread then the canteen. The water dribbled down her chin and wet her veil. 

The man was Joe, a friend of Chris’s who travelled with him and now, Jacie. Chris said that Joe had been at the wedding, and Jacie realised he had been the man in the shadows. Joe had also found them a priest in the dead of night so they could be wed with God’s blessing. Chris said so with much pride. Politely, Jacie thanked Joe with a nod. Joe bowed his own head and grinned. 

Joe was loud and merry, and Jacie liked him right away. He said improper things then apologised profusely for them, but if Chris had not constantly hushed him, Jacie would never have realised he was saying anything inappropriate. Joe talked a lot about women. 

Jacie did not speak unless spoken to. Chris said very little to her at all on that first awkward day. He merely tended her needs, offering her food and water and bringing her a blanket when she got cold. He seemed gentle and kind. She wanted to believe it, but it felt strange. This man was her husband, and she barely knew him. 

Time passed quickly. Joe bid farewell for the night and disappeared into the tent. There was only one. Startled, Jacie realised she was expected to share a tent with men. Even more shocking was the understanding that the tent was no longer her cage. Outside, the air seemed purer. Smiling behind her veil, she curled her toes into the ground and pulled at the grass. 

"We will move northward come morning," Chris said. He sat down next to her. There was bread in his beard, and she stared at it until he lifted his hand. He rubbed his fingers over his chin and crookedly smiled. The light from the fire cast even darker shadows over his eyes. They were murky like mud. "I know I did not ask you if this is what you wanted." 

"I was told I would never marry," Jacie blurted out then blushed. She was grateful her cheeks were hidden. 

"Aye. Me too," Chris said. 

Jacie looked over at him. She did not understand how that could be true. He was very handsome. When he smiled, his mouth crinkled at the corners. His sisters, had they been allowed to see him, would have felt the deep stirring of jealousy, of this Jacie was sure. Chris was much more handsome than their husbands. 

"My mother was unwed when I was born," Chris said. 

"Does that make the child unhealthy?" 

"Unhealthy?" Chris laughed. "No, though some would argue so." 

"My apologies," Jacie said, ducking her head. "I have been told very little." 

"Better for me, then," Chris said. His voice was light, and Jacie hazarded a glance in his direction. There was no sign of offense on his face. He merely smiled at her again and leaned forward to pick at the grass. His ears were threaded with silver. "Travel will be hard. We are not equipped for a lady’s presence." 

Jacie looked down at her hands. "But you will take me with you?" She did not dare glance at Chris. She was unsure of how this marriage would work. Her sisters’ husbands and their families had travelled with or known Jacie’s family for as long as she could remember. 

"I could not leave you behind," Chris said. "I would never return you to your father." 

"He would not take me if you tried," Jacie replied. She smoothed her skirt over her knees then pulled her blanket more tightly over her shoulders. The chill of night was settling heavy, and even the steady burn of the fire seemed unable to offer warmth. 

"You were unhappy there." 

"Yes." 

Chris bowed his head. Jacie wondered if she was allowed to touch him. The line of his neck was pale and covered with black hair. She wondered how it would feel under her palm, if it would be prickly or soft. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap and yawned under her veil. 

"Come to bed," Chris said. He put his hand under her elbow, as if to help her stand, then offered the other. She took it gingerly and let herself unfold. He looked up at her, and she ducked her head. She had not noticed, until then, that she could see the top of his head or that he was so small. His body was thick, strong, but she could see over him to the rolling hills beyond. 

Embarrassed, she hunched her shoulders and tried to shrink. Her body suddenly seemed swollen like a giant. All of her sisters except Elspeth were small women. Elspeth was tall, like Jacie, but her husband was a huge and lumbering man. Chris was not. 

"Jacie," Chris said. She thought she could hear laughter twisted in his voice. 

"I do not wish to insult you," she said, but already, her back ached from hunching over. 

"I know I am short, and even if I did not, Joe would kindly remind me. I take you as you come, long legs and all. My lady," he added and tipped his head like a gentleman would do. Jacie had seen very little of those in her lifetime, but if the stories were true, Chris was as close to one as she could imagine. 

Jacie wanted to offer her thanks to him, but it seemed premature. She loved him already, but she did not dare love him more. If he turned away her ugly face, it would be worse than anything she could imagine. She wished she was beautiful, more than she ever had before.


	7. Chapter 7

Travelling was harder on Jacie than Chris thought it would be. She said very little. He rode with her seated before him, her shoulders slumped as Alistair carried them across the moors. Merrily, Joe sang as they went. His folktales were often filthy and wholly improper for a lady’s ears, but Jacie never responded to them. Chris had no doubt his bride was a virgin. They had not yet shared a bed. 

Chris approached Joe one evening and inquired about the caravan. They had shared one in earlier times before Chris had grown tired of it. It was too much for two men and two horses, and Chris cared very little for material possessions. But Jacie grew wearier with each passing day. She deserved an easier life than the one Chris offered. 

It had been left with Kelly, Joe’s first long-term lover and the mother of Joe’s second-born child. Kelly was a writer. She lived in a small house on her own with a swarthy young girl named Brianna. They travelled a lengthy week until one evening, long after the sun had set, they arrived. 

Chris helped Jacie from the horse, catching her when her skirt hooked on one of the packs. She was warm with sleep. Chris kept a hand low on her back as he introduced her to Kelly as his wife. Kelly greeted Jacie warmly and took her inside. Joe went to tie the horses, and Chris followed. 

"Have you bedded her yet?" Joe asked, checking the knots. He pulled them tighter then scrubbed his hands through Joseph the Third’s mane. 

"No," Chris said. "I will." 

"I should hope so." Joe grinned. "And I hope we do not keep you up all night." 

"Aye. You are not the only one, Joe," Chris said. He approached the abandoned caravan with caution. It was old and worn, and the wheels would have to be fixed, but it seemed sturdy. Joe kicked at it before entering. Cautiously, Chris did the same. "I want to buy her something." 

"What?" 

"Everything," Chris said. "Jewels, the finest dresses. Combs for her hair. A mirror. She has never seen her face, Joe, or her eyes. I want her to see all of it then show herself to me. I cannot believe she is ugly. Strange, perhaps, but ugly? Never." 

Joe climbed into the seat at the front. "Sit with me, Chris." 

Chris settled beside him. Inside, he could hear Kelly speaking. She was a loud and jovial woman, and Jacie was not. Chris struggled to hear if Jacie responded to Kelly, but he doubted it would touch his ears if she did. Her voice was soft and low, and it was not easy to pull from the wind. 

"If she is ugly, what will you do?" 

"She is not," Chris said. 

"If she is," Joe repeated. 

"It will not matter," Chris said firmly. 

"I will make sure that it does not, Chris." 

Joe looked over at Chris, and Chris nodded. Joe clasped him on the shoulder before jumping to the ground. It was late. They would work on the caravan tomorrow, and if Chris could convince him, travel by horse to the nearest village. There was a market there. 

Behind Joe, Chris entered the house. Jacie sat at the table. Her eyes were closed. Busily, Kelly set up the guest bed by the stove. Joe snuck up behind her and put his hands on her wide hips. Murmuring lowly in her ear, Joe was blessed with a sweet laugh in return. Jacie looked up sharply, and Chris smiled at her. Her eyes were wide and exotic in the dim light. 

Kelly and Joe bid good night and disappeared behind a closed door. The child, Brianna, slept in her cradle under the westerly window. Chris remembered the day Joe discovered he had made a child. They had returned to Kelly only a few months after the babe’s birth. It was another half a year before Joe found he had sired another babe even before he sired Brianna. 

Chris pushed off his boots and sat on the bed. It was firm and flat. He unbuttoned his shirt with slow fingers. Across the room, he could see Jacie watching from her place at the table. In recent times, he had been sleeping in his day clothes, as much for Jacie’s privacy as for the fact he did not want to chase after bandits half-dressed, but they were dirty and stiff with dried sweat. 

Chris lay down on his back and closed his eyes. The screech of Jacie’s chair over the wooden floor signalled her movement. Calmly, he waited. They had shared space in the tent, but Jacie slept away from him, curled into herself like she was still afraid. Joe wondered when they would lay together as husband and wife, and Chris knew they would, but he did not dare rush it. 

"You will not look at me," Jacie said. It seemed like a question, so Chris replied, 

"No. My eyes are shut." 

He listened as she moved. She walked like wind, soft with only the faintest murmur. She had one pack, which he had thought was only clothing, but there was something heavy wrapped in her dresses. He had not yet asked about it. She kept it guarded, so he thought it must be of some importance. 

"Am I to share your bed?" She asked. 

"Aye. If you wish," Chris added quietly. He hoped she would, but he would give her the bed and sleep outside if it made her uncomfortable. 

She lifted the blankets and slid under them. He opened his eyes and looked at her. She stared back, the veil masking her face as it always did, but she had left her hair uncovered. It was long and thick, spiralling over the pillows like the twisted tendrils of some strange sea creature he had only heard about in folktales. 

"Good night," he said quietly and touched his fingers to hers under the sheets. 

"Good night." 

He closed his eyes. In the other room, he could hear movement where something, most likely the bed, thumped rhythmically against the wall. Someone moaned, a low keening that sparked Chris’s own desire between his legs. He was no virgin, but his encounters had been few and far between. No child of his would be a bastard. No woman had ever seemed worth it. 

"Is he harming her?" Jacie asked suddenly. 

"No," Chris said. "They are merely lying together." 

"Like we are?" 

"As we will," Chris said quietly. "As husband and wife should." 

Quiet settled between them. The noise that wafted in from the other room was dull and melodic. Chris’s skin itched. 

"I do not understand." 

Chris could feel the heat on his own face. He had thought mothers warned their daughters of their wifely duties. _Perhaps_ , he thought, _I have presumed too much_. He would get Kelly to speak with her then, to explain what he could not. If he had been more a man, he would have bedded her on their wedding night. But, as always, he was only half of one. No father, no name to carry but that of Kilpatrick, which was as damning as having none at all. It clearly signalled he had no father to name him. 

"Go to sleep." 

"I want to be a good wife," Jacie said. 

"You are," Chris assured her. Jacie was too smart for how she had been raised, of this much he was sure. She was undereducated but not unintelligent, and Chris recognised the danger in that. "It is not something I feel should be rushed. Any failing here is mine, I promise." 

"If you are sure," Jacie said. Her voice sounded unsteady. 

"I am," Chris said. 

Jacie hummed a little, and Chris prayed that was the last of it. She turned over in bed, but to face which way, he did not know. He dared not look over. She would let him do anything to her, which was troublesome. Too many women walked around with a dullness in their eyes. 

In the other room, Joe shouted. Chris squeezed his eyelids together. _Can the man not do it quietly for once in his life?_

"Chris?" 

"They are fine," Chris said. He hoped this meant Joe had reached his climax and would be still for the rest of the night, but he doubted it. Joe swore he loved all his women equally, but Kelly was first in his massive heart, and the night was long. 

"Is it pleasurable?" 

"Aye," Chris replied. He barely got it past his lips. The tips of his ears burned. 

"I am making you angry." 

"No. No, I am merely tired," Chris said quickly. He grappled for Jacie’s hand beneath the blankets and caught her fingers with his. Her skin was cool like the night air. With his thumb, he stroked across the back of her hand. The song of her breath slowed with every sweep of his skin against hers. When she was asleep, he looked at her then let sleep take him, too.


	8. Chapter 8

The third time Joe knocked at the back of his knees, they tumbled together to the grass. Nearby, Kelly and Jacie sat with the child, Brianna. The babe laughed when Joe scrambled towards her on hands and feet like a wild beast. Kelly chided him, her eyes bright and merry, and he buried his face in her skirts, laughing. 

Chris smiled at Jacie then returned to the final wheel, fitting the last of the new pieces. They would have to buy cloth to cover the caravan, but it was nearly revived after hours of long work. The sun was bright that day, and a damp heat clung to Chris’s skin. He worked without a shirt. 

Jacie brought them water. It was cool and refreshing on Chris’s lips. He drank heartily then wiped his mouth with his hand. He bowed his head in thanks. Her eyes glittered like silver reflecting the sky with her smile. Wearing his own, he returned to the task. His fingers ached with fatigue. 

When the afternoon sun shone too warm, they untied the horses and travelled to town instead. Joe kissed Kelly on the mouth then peppered his child with kisses, promising them both gifts and toys. Jacie watched them with her pale eyes then turned to Chris. He took her hand and smiled at her. He brushed his lips over her knuckles. 

They rode, and Joe sang. He seemed as though he was drunk on ale. The songs were simple love ballads. Chris knew that Joe meant him to sing the woman’s part, but he would not. He swallowed his smile as Joe sang sweetly to him. Joseph the Third pranced in circles around Alistair. Joe’s grin lit his face. 

"Come, Chris, sing with me," Joe said. He tightened his fist in the reins, marching ahead. 

"Is it not enough I had no sleep, but now I must act as your beloved? My apologies, Joe, but you must find a woman for that. Your charms do not work on me," Chris replied, trotting up to him. Joseph the Third was larger than Chris’s own horse, but it was half-chicken. It had long ago learned to prefer a protector in its travels. "Are you not even tired?" 

"Aye. But it was well worth it," Joe said. 

"So it sounded." 

Joe laughed. They twisted down a hill then across a narrow path. Chris had long ago lost his sense of direction. Joe remembered clearly all the paths on the island. He could find hidden places as easily as he could find the ocean, and with even less effort, Joe could find his women, especially the ones he loved most and the ones who had bore his children. 

"Can we be serious a moment?" Joe asked. 

"Aye." 

"Kelly says Jacie does not bleed," Joe said. "She has passed the age when most girls start their monthly. The way she is built, how thin she is. She could be barren, Chris." 

Chris nodded. That did not surprise him. There were secrets her father had talked around when Chris asked for Jacie’s hand. He had asked about her deformity, and her father had implied more than he explained. Chris was mildly disappointed. Children would not have made him happy, but Jacie seemed to like Brianna and treated her like a mother would a child. 

Chris looked up, over the rolling hills, to the village in the distance. The clouds had settled low, and the mist masked the sprawling stone of the town, but it was there. They left their horses with a beggar by the gate and the promise of gold when they returned. 

Chris was keenly aware of his difference as he walked. His clothes were in shambles, and he wore his hair messy and long. It was the silver around his neck and pierced through his ears that signalled it the most. Joe wore gold but never noticed any look tossed his way unless it was offered by a pretty girl. 

They walked around the market. The people stepped around them, and Chris heard more than one jeer of _tinker_. He felt like opening their eyes to the wrongness. He was himself a Traveller, born to a mother who roamed even if she gave him to the church to save his life. Joe was not. The people who mocked were the same people who should have been on their knees, offering to kiss his boot. Joe merely ignored them and advised him to do the same. 

"Be calm, Kilpatrick. I can hear your thoughts," Joe said. He spoke it warmly in Chris’s ear. 

Chris wished his money pouch was deeper. He was not a rich man, merely a man of means. There was a small handful of coins that he had saved, but it would buy very little. He wanted the best for Jacie, but what he would be able to provide her with was merely adequate. 

He fingered the edges of the mirror carefully. It was small enough to carry in a pack but big enough to reveal the full of a face. The glass was held in delicate fingers of twisted metal. Chris touched a finger to his cheek. The droop of his eyes reminded him of his lethargy. 

"That will cost you," the lady said, watching him. 

"Aye, I know," Chris replied, turning his back to her. She was wrong to assume he was a thief. He stole items of necessity, but he would not be so stupid as to do it in front of anyone but Joe. She kept watchful eyes on him as he picked up a silver necklace. He held it close to his eyes and admired it. 

The line of leather carried the pendent of a lion. It shimmered in the noonday sun. The beast reminded him of Jacie. Her hair, as she had let him see, was like a lion’s mane, but it was her spirit that matched the creature with its strength. The more she spoke and let him understand her, the more he was convinced he had done right in marrying her. 

Chris opened his pouch and fished out a few coins. The bag was shallow and nearly empty already, but he handed the woman the money. She was careful to make sure their hands did not touch. He was careful to drop as many of them on the ground as he could. 

Chris eyed Joe as he moved towards three young ladies. Sisters, most likely, with hair like golden silk and swelling breasts barely confined in their bodices. Chris paid them no mind. Perhaps Jacie’s endowments lacked, but Chris did not care at all. She was lovelier than any lady he had seen, with eyes like the sky and a laugh that made his heart tighten. 

He bought her a chest carved from dark wood to hold her things. A few blankets, three new shawls, and four bracelets, all beaded with small, coloured stones. He put it all in the chest with the mirror and the pendent then went to find Joe. Chris found him at the Butcher’s shop, a wrapped parcel of meat already in his hands. Chris’s stomach grumbled in anticipation. Jacie was a good cook, but Kelly was amazing. Together, it would be the feast of feasts. 

Their last stop was the alchemist. Joe spoke of things Chris had never heard of, powders and oils that, when combined, created light and smoke and fire. The alchemist knew Joe and gave him the very best of everything. Chris bought a bar of soap and a small pot of oil that smelled like lavender. It was slick on his fingers and warmed when he rubbed them together. 

They travelled back to Kelly’s home and ate. Chris hid the chest under the front seat of the caravan. He did not feel right giving it to Jacie without warning or fanfare. They were likely the first gifts she had ever received. He wished he had been able to buy more, but his pocket was empty. He had not even been able to buy enough cloth to mattress the platform of the caravan. 

The next days passed in a flurry of motion and activity. At night, Joe and Kelly stayed up to all hours, and Jacie did not ask again about any of it. For that, Chris was thankful. He spent his sleep with his face in Jacie’s long hair. She had put sweet scented oil in her curls. It smelled of wild flowers and honey. He longed to kiss her on her mouth. 

Chris and Joe worked on the caravan. The back wheels still shook each time they moved down the path to Kelly’s house. Jacie and the babe sat in the back as Kelly watched from the door. Chris could hear Brianna laughing as Joe swore and kicked at the wood. In retaliation, he snatched her from the caravan and ran with her over his shoulder. Delightedly, she screeched. 

"She is a beautiful child," Jacie said. 

Chris stayed silent. If Joe thought she was barren, Jacie likely was. 

"I should like to have one," Jacie continued. She looked up at Chris with her wide eyes, and he wished nothing more than to give her one, to put his seed in her body and make her belly swell. "Kelly has spoken to me. I understand it is unlikely, but still, I like to think about it." 

"I do not think any less of you," Chris said. 

Jacie bowed her head, and her eyes slanted shut. He wished to trace the arch of her lashes with his thumbs, to touch under them and feel the smooth skin. Her flesh was like alabaster, pale and perfect, but he thought, with sun, her skin would turn to gold. She loved the light and sat in it as often as she could, even when showers sprayed down and wet the world. 

"If I am barren and ugly," she said then halted her words. 

"I believe one but not the other. Your eyes," Chris said, "your eyes are beautiful." 

"What colour are they?" Jacie asked. "Yours are like sap, gold in the sun but dark in the shadow. When you smile, they crinkle at the corners." She touched her fingers to her cheek, and he imagined she bit her lip under her veil. "They are very handsome." 

"Mine are nothing compared to yours. They are blue like the sky on a sunny day, like the water as it twines the path of a river, or like the heart of a precious stone as it shimmers in the light. They are all of that and more. Beautiful," he said again and watched them twinkle under her dark brow. She blinked then looked away. He could see the blush creeping on her skin. 

Chris turned from her and reached for the chest. He could hear Joe with his ladies in the field, shrieking and laughing. It was warm, and the delighted noises only helped brighten the day. He took the box into his hands and climbed back to sit aside her. She tipped her legs away from him and made room. Gently, he set the chest down on the floor. 

"This is for you," Chris said quietly and pushed it to her. 

She lifted her hand but did not reach for it. "Why?" 

"As my bride, you have received nothing." 

"You are enough," she said. "I do not need more. You have given me the world already." 

"I simply wish to give you as much as I can. Please take it," Chris said and slid it closer to her. Her hand hovered, as if she was still reluctant, so he took it and put it on the box of carved wood. He knew how it felt. Cool and smooth, the grooves deep and detailed. She ran her hand over it, and he watched. Inside his chest, his breath curled and waited to escape. 

"Open it," he breathed. He could barely keep the excited pitch from his voice. 

"There is more?" She asked. 

Chris nodded. 

She opened the box with two hands then pulled the first of the three shawls. It was silk and blue, the edge embroidered with pale flowers. She pulled the plain white one from her hair and replaced it with the gift. Chris reached up and helped her. She let him. 

She examined each item as she removed it. She held out her delicate wrists so he could attach the four bracelets in pairs. He kissed the inside of each arm and laughed when she tangled her fingers in his hair. It was the first she had touched it, and she pulled the long strands through her grasp before tucking them behind his ears. 

"You get so cold," he said when she pulled the blankets onto her lap and looked at them. 

"I have been warmer, with you near me in sleep," she replied. 

Chris nodded and leaned closer to her as she pulled out the pendent. He watched her lift an idle hand to her long throat and touch it softly with her fingers. The cloth lifted with the pressure and revealed the dip at the base of her neck. Inside the cave of his mouth, Chris rubbed his tongue over his teeth. He wanted to press his mouth to that hollow and kiss it. 

"Will you put it on me?" Elegantly, she lifted her chin. When she held it out to him, Chris fumbled with the pendent and nearly dropped it, and she laughed at him, sweet and light. He grinned as well then carefully, his hands shaking, he threaded the leather under her hair. She lifted the locks to ease his journey. The back of her neck was damp with sweat. 

"There is more," he said as he pulled his hands from her throat, the leather strap knotted securely. His voice croaked like a frog when he spoke. 

"You spoil me," Jacie said, but she reached into the chest again. Inside his chest, his heart roared like thunder. He watched her eyes as they widened. They were breathtaking, and he knew he would never forget them. He would never want to. 

"A mirror," he said, like she was too dumb to know, but she simply nodded. In her hands, she held it like it was a child. He feared he had been too presumptuous. She had not asked to see herself. He had just assumed she would want to, that she was as obsessed with seeing her face as he was. "Have I offended you?" 

"No," she said. "Chris, are those my eyes?" 

"Aye." 

"They are just as you said they were," she said. The surprise showed in her voice. 

"Aye," Chris said again. He wished he was a poet and could offer a sonnet on whim, but he was just a simple man who had not even heard a sonnet until Joe read him one. The words bubbled in him like stew over a fire, but they would not come further than the tip of his tongue. 

She looked up at him, and he could see trouble etched on her face. Something had upset her. Again, he asked, "have I offended you? If I have, say so, and I will take it back. I do not wish you to be unhappy. Tell me." 

"If there is offense, I fear it will be yours." She picked up a shawl and draped it over the glass. Her hands, he saw, were shaking, and she curled them around the mirror and put both in her lap. "I do want to see my face, but as the first to view it. Should it be horrible," she added. The line of her eyebrows lifted expectantly. 

"I would not intend anything else," Chris said. 

"My apologies." 

"No. I promise you, Jacie. I understand as much as my dim-witted brain will allow me," Chris said. A smile passed over his lips, and he reached to put his palm over the knot of her hands. Gently, he squeezed. "There is more. Look." 

"More?" Jacie repeated. 

Chris nodded. 

"This is too much." 

"It is not enough," Chris replied. There was a hitch to his voice that shook it, and he swallowed it down. Excitement or fear, he could tell no difference. Never before had he wanted someone to like him, to love him, as much as he wanted Jacie to do so in that very moment. "But they are only small things. Items a lady would like." 

Jacie picked up the jar of oil and removed the cork. She held it to her nose and sniffed it through the veil. "Like spring," she said softly. Her eyes flicked shut. Her eyelashes were dark and gorgeous against her pale cheek. "I love the scent of wildflowers, especially lavender." 

"I know. Last night, I smelled it on your hair," Chris said. He could still remember it. Deep and heady, the aroma clung to his nose. He did not want her to know he had buried his face in it while she slept. To him, it seemed like a violation, though it had not felt like one at the time. 

"Kelly put some on me. She wanted me to please you," Jacie confessed. She dipped her head shyly. Her mouth was open under her veil, Chris could tell by the shadows painted on the cloth. The slant of her lips was enticing, even when hidden, and he thought he should press his mouth to it. She looked at him. "Did it please you?" 

"Aye," Chris said. His mouth felt like he had chewed hay. 

She lifted her eyes. A look of uncertainty crossed her brow, and it wrinkled in the centre. Hesitantly, he touched his fingers to her jaw and leaned forward. Already, his arm ached from the weight he placed on it, but the pleasure seeping through his chest washed it away. He fitted his mouth against hers and tasted the dryness of the cloth. He swallowed the wet breath when she exhaled it. Under him, his arm shook. He kissed her for just a moment before he sat back. 

"More," Chris whispered. The heavy intoxication of dizziness settled over him, and his eyes danced circles in his head. He wanted to take each of Jacie’s fingers and kiss the tips before they could reach for the last gift. "I do not mean to imply anything." 

Jacie held the bar in her palm and peered at it, lifting it to her face. 

"If you would like to bathe," Chris mumbled. It had seemed right at the time, for the scent was the same as the oil and there were flowers imbedded in the wax, but now it seemed presumptuous. The real thrust behind it seemed downright obscene. The idea of Jacie in water, her skin bare and pale in the shining sun, had sent bursts of warmth through his belly. His imagination was greedy for the reality. 

"Now?" Jacie asked. She looked at him. 

"If you wish," Chris said. She wore her innocence like the veil that covered her face. If he was more a man, he would invite himself and his naked body with hers into the water, but he merely circled his fingers around her wrist and led her from the caravan to the horse. 

Inside, he shivered with muted pleasure as he pulled her onto the stallion’s back and between his legs. Already, his cock was heavy, and he thought of dreary things to force it back to softness. He wanted to spread her legs and climb inside her where he knew it was warm and welcoming, the moisture a much needed bath for his desire. 

It was a short ride to the river, and he stood back as she approached it. Her feet were bare, and she walked like the grass was clouds. The fabric of her skirts brushed her ankles, twisting around her legs as the wind grabbed at them. The ache in his belly speared deeper into him. His cock settled full between his legs. He felt like a man. The feeling was foreign to him. 

Cautiously, she dipped a foot into the water. She looked back at him, her eyes dancing with merriment. "It is cold!" 

"Aye," Chris said. He wondered if her skin prickled like his did in the frigid water, and if it felt as dully pleasurable, like a warm wind across a naked body. 

"May I have some privacy?" She asked. The bar of soap was still clutched in her long fingers. Behind her, the hem of her skirt dipped into the water. Mutely, he nodded and walked even further back from where he stood and rounded the horse. "You will not look." 

"I give you my word, Jacie. I will not look at you," Chris replied. 

He sat down in the long grass, intending to keep watch. Dusk was settling, which would provide even more cover and for that he was glad. She was so shy, and for good reasons, he supposed. But he was used to women like Kelly, who were immodest and glad to be that way. Joe’s women were unlike most common women. Kelly was a writer, a woman who could read. Chris knew his letters but not as well as she. Joe had taught him when he realised Chris could not even sign his own name. A man’s name was important, Joe said. Chris felt drowned by his. 

"Are you good?" Chris asked. He doubted that she could swim, and he did not want to lose her to the river. 

"Yes." She sounded far away, like the wind was stealing her voice. "I can sing. You will know where I am." 

"If you like," Chris said. 

Her singing voice was light and sweetness all mixed together in a pot of honey. It was deeper than most women’s, deeper than even his, he noted with a smirk on his face, but the melody was magic to his ears. His skin warmed despite the setting sun. Chris laid his hand over his cock and pressed on it. There had been a time when he thought he would never feel desire again. Now, Chris realised that he breathed it with every word to tumble from Jacie’s mouth. 

She sang happily as she bathed, and he kept his eyes open and wary. His cock stayed hard against his palm; he let his other fingers drift to the dagger attached at his waist. If it was darker, he would have tried to count the stars. Instead, he listened to her song and remained alert. 

Chris was not sure why he turned his head, but he did before he could stop himself. Her back was to him, bare and pale. Her hair hung in spirals over her body, cascading over her shoulders and ending just above the swell of her arse. For a moment, he pinched his eyes shut and breathed through his nose, before letting them open again. She was glorious. 

She settled back into the water and moved the soap over her arms. It was a trail he wished to follow with his tongue. Her skin glistened with drops of water, and he wished to press his mouth to those as well, to taste the saltiness of her skin and the pureness of the river’s touch. 

And still she sang. With a thumping heart, he turned back and curled his fingers into his thighs. He wanted to claw into his own flesh as punishment for breaking his word. And still she sang. It was a violation of the highest order, and he had done it to her. _Some man_ , he thought. He could not even keep a promise to his wife. 

When she had finished, she walked up to him. Her wet hair tangled like snakes before her face. She had left it uncovered. He looked at her, the guilty weighing heavy in his belly, and he thought he should confess his sins to her, but he was not, despite his beginning, any semblance of a good Catholic, though he wished to be more than he could describe. 

"Will you comb my hair?" Jacie asked. 

"If you wish," Chris said. The guilt surged in his stomach. He felt ill. 

"I do." 

Jacie sat in front of him, the pool of her skirt covering the grass and his legs. She reached back with a small ivory comb and offered it to him. Their fingers brushed like silk together. Hers were still chilled from the water, and he shivered in spite of himself. With an unsteady hand, he lifted the comb to her hair. It glistened like silver in the afternoon light.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : act of gender-related violence at end of chapter.

On the eighth morning, Jacie packed her things then played with Brianna as she waited to leave. Chris was anxious and acting strangely, but Jacie had learned already that he often worked himself up with nerves when he was bothered by something. Joe had banned him from the caravan until he was to depart, but their parting time was dependent on Joe, who kept postponing the journey. Jacie did not mind how long it took. She enjoyed spending time with the child. 

Brianna was a plump babe, with wild curly hair and an infectious grin. She rarely cried, which Kelly praised as often as she could. Kelly was a writer, a woman who could read. To Jacie, it was amazing. Jacie had thought, for a moment, to ask Kelly to read her mother’s book. The book remained hidden under her dresses. 

Finally, Joe announced he was done and allowed them to pack their things. Jacie saw it first and could not stop the gasp from escaping her lips. He had covered it with cloth of all colours. There were pillows and bedding and curtains that covered the rear of the caravan. They were soft against Jacie’s fingers. She realised, moments later, that they were velvet. 

"Joe," Chris said oddly. 

Jacie was already inside, feeling her way around, but the way it fell from his mouth gave her pause. Chris was a proud man, like her father had been, and he was a poor man, though he acted as though he was not. She had taken his gifts only at his insistence. She would say so, if he tried to refuse to Joe’s. 

"A wedding gift, you miserable bastard. And you forget, this is half mine. If I wish to live in the seat of luxury, I will. But mostly, an offering, to you and your bride," Joe said quietly. His shoulders were kept straight and solid, and he shifted his eyes to Jacie for just a moment. She smiled at him, and he winked. Turning away, she blushed. 

"Enjoy yourself. I will see you in a week," Joe said. He grasped Chris’s shoulder. 

"I will keep westward and stay on the main roads." 

"I will find you," Joe promised. He grasped Chris in the circle of his arms and squeezed. 

"Aye. Be well, Joe. Treat your ladies well." 

"And yours," Joe said. "See you soon, Jacie." 

"And you, Joe," she replied. He was so kind to her, though he did not need to be. 

Kelly brought Brianna for a kiss, and Jacie peppered her cheeks with wet kisses. She exchanged another embrace with Kelly, who slipped a satchel of food into her hands. The spice of the dinner tickled Jacie’s nose. It was a special meal, she understood. This was a special trip. 

"Chris is a good man," Kelly said, and Jacie nodded. They hugged one last time before she stepped back and walked to Joe’s side, handing the babe to him. Chris kissed Kelly’s cheek then approached the caravan cautiously, as if it was a dream he could not decipher. 

They rode for hours. Jacie sat aside him up front, watching the landscape blur past them. The sky was dark and rolling. There would be rain, Jacie knew. She could smell it on the wind. The push of it was so strong that her shawl would not stay over her hair, and she took it off. Her face remained covered. The veil continued to itch. It was as much a prison as her father’s tent had been. 

"Tell me of your life," Chris said. 

"There is very little to tell," Jacie admitted. 

"Tell me anyway. Tell me about your mother, about your childhood, your dreams, the things you have done, the places you have seen. Speak to me. I want to know all of you," Chris said. He shifted his head and glanced at her, quiet and waiting. 

"My mother passed at the end of last summer," Jacie said softly, twisting her fingers tightly in her lap. The pain was still heavy in her belly after all these months. She missed her and wished, for what seemed the hundredth time, that she had been able to meet Chris. "She loved me when no other did. My life was her, and without her, it was nothing." 

Chris pinched his lips together. 

"But she made sure I was happy," Jacie continued. The melancholy still clung to her skin, but she wanted Chris to know about her mother, even if the memory caused her pain, so she swallowed her grief and spoke. "She taught me to sing, and to dance. She taught me how to read the stars. Orion is my favourite." 

"I would like to have known her," Chris said quietly. 

"She would have liked you," Jacie said. Her hair itched at her nose, ticklish and distracting, but the clean breath of air was welcome. She always enjoyed travelling, though her family had not done it as often as Chris seemed to, but never before had she been allowed to sit upfront. The world seemed vast and interesting when she could see it. "What of your life, Chris?" 

"There is little to say," Chris said, shaking the reins in his hands. The horse snorted then with the path, his tail flicking elegantly against its hind legs. "I was born to an unwed mother, and she handed me to the church when I was just a boy. She came for me later, engaged to different man, but while she loved me as her son, her husband did not. I left." 

"How old were you?" 

"Your age. Seventeen." 

Jacie had not really thought of how many years Chris held to his name. He looked young, though there was a sag to his body that spoke of a deep lethargy. She looked at him, debating on whether to ask or not, but he seemed to sense there was an unspoken question lingering on her lips and said, "twenty-three. Not too old." 

"No," Jacie agreed, smiling. 

They rode until the sun dipped and the stars sparkled. Jacie’s body felt tired, though she did not understand why, just that sleep came easy. She woke to Chris’s hand on her hip, heavy and warm through her bedclothes. With hesitant fingers, she touched his face. His breath touched her fingers like warm dew on a summer’s morn. In sleep, his face lost all worry. 

She slipped out of the caravan quietly, moving like her mother had taught her, light like clouds, smooth like song. The day was already warm. Under her veil, her skin had already prickled with sweat. She scratched her fingers over the slickness then paused on her lips. _Perhaps_ , she thought. She looked up to the bright sky then ducked into the caravan again, fetching the mirror. 

She clutched it to her breast as she walked. Already, the fear danced in her head, but she would not turn back. Every day, she loved Chris with more of her. Soon, she would love him completely, if she already did not, and she had to know what was hidden under her veil, as much for him as for herself. 

It was not far until she stumbled upon a babbling brook. _It will do_ , she thought, and sat in the long grass. Under her shirt, her heart beat like a drum, hard and jarring, and her belly churned as though it meant to make butter. Chris knew that she was most likely ugly and said it did not matter, but Jacie knew there was a difference between a mild deformity and the monstrousness her father had seen. 

Gently, she set the mirror face down in the ground then lifted her fingers to her face. Without her veil, she could almost taste the clean chill of the water. She bowed her face to it and drank, cupping her hand and bringing it to her mouth. The cold trickled down her throat and raised the hair on her body. 

"Please do not let me be too ugly," she whispered then picked the mirror from the ground, closing her eyes. The metal that held it was cool against her palm. It was as cool on her skin as the tears that prickled her eyes were warm. She did not want to see, but she opened her eyes anyway. It was them that she saw first, as blue as the sky, beautiful. 

The face that looked back at her was familiar. She had seen shades of it on the faces of her sisters and her brothers. The same big nose and gaunt face, but where they were plain, there was something startling about her face that she recognised on some unnameable level. And there was nothing wrong with it. No scars, no missing pieces. With shaking fingers, she twisted her hand in her hair and pulled it back. Nothing, just pale unblemished skin and strange blue eyes. 

_Nothing_ , she thought again. _How can there be nothing?_

She lifted the mirror higher and tilted her chin to look at her throat. It was a long, smooth line. Her shoulders were creamy and pale. Her fingers tracked a path over her cheeks, her jaw, the slope of her brow. Nothing bore any sign of deformity. 

When she finally returned, she saw Chris sitting at the fire, his back to her. She held the mirror in one hand, her veil in the other. Opening her mouth, she breathed in the morning air and licked her lips, startled when they stayed wet. Chris had not noticed her. He was singing one of Joe’s songs to the fire, a ballad about love and a sword fight. He moved his hands and acted the role. 

She put her things down and went to sit behind him. Her hands settled on his shoulders, and he jumped, knocking over his cup. Closing her eyes, she lifted his hair from the back of his neck and pressed her face to it. He smelled of her lavender oil and tasted like salt, though she was unsure if that was due to the heat of his skin or the river of her tears. 

"Jacie," Chris said. 

She twisted her body around him like she was serpent and watched his eyes as they widened. She settled between his legs, her skirt already tangled, and she would have fallen to the grass had Chris’s hands not settled on her waist, fingers pressed to the small of her back. 

Her breath held in her throat as he looked at her. The darkness of his eyes held the answers to all of her questions, but they were like falling into shadows. She did not even know what she had asked, just that he looked at her like she had always dreamed a man would. He had, she realised, from the very beginning when he had taken her hand and led her away from the prison that was her life. 

"You are beautiful," he said. "Who said that you were ugly?" 

She could do nothing but lift her shoulders and lick at the tears pooling at the corners of her mouth. Chris lifted one hand and wiped the wetness from her cheeks, and she leaned back into his arm. When she blinked, the tears caught on her lashes and blurred her vision. Chris caught those drops with his thumb then dropped it to her lips. Her mouth opened. The salt was strong on her tongue. She wanted to speak to him, but it would only rise to her throat as a sob. 

"You are beautiful," Chris said again, and she nodded into his neck, pressing her bare face to his skin and kissing at it. With a firm hand, he pushed her away and gazed upon her again, his eyes as deep as the sea. She shivered as he pressed her close, his hand spanning her back. He was going to kiss her, she realised suddenly, but the knowledge did not prevent the surprise when his mouth touched hers. The world spun around them. 

It was unending in how long it lasted. Her nerves upset her belly, but with each glide of his lips on hers, she felt the calm rise and swallow her fear. Left in its place was a tingling warmth that spread over her skin as though she had jumped into a bath. She kissed him with a desperation that made her insides ache as the warmth covered her skin then settled, shocking and hot between her legs. It was for that reason alone that she pulled away, her breath coming shortly. 

For the remainder of the day, she caught him looking at her when he thought she was looking elsewhere. She fixed a pair of his breeches with a needle and thread, sitting cross-legged by the fire, and each time she looked up, she saw his eyes focussed on her. Each time, she looked away with a blush but smiled. It made her happy to know he could see her grin. 

They kissed a second time under a big tree, his hands circling her narrow waist. She melted into his arms, lifting her fingers to his face and touching the rough hair on his cheeks. He modelled his fixed breeches for her then chased her playfully through the grass, then kissed her a third time. Each kiss was better than the one before, each kiss set a fire burning in her belly. 

The euphoric relief did not last long. Come nightfall, she felt quiet settle over her as she sat at the fireside, watching the flame dance in the cool evening air. She had spent seventeen years convinced that she was deformed, and her face, at least, was not. But her body, which she had seen, had never seemed ugly to her. The mystery, then, remained as unknown as her face had been all her life. 

It was hard to think of such things. Chris’s mouth drank away her worries whenever they surged, but when she was alone, it was as if the mirror had made things worse. And Chris looked at her with a heat in his eyes that she knew meant more than she understood. Kelly had told her of her duty, that it was enjoyable and pleasurable and worthy of all the poets’ words, but still, she was nervous. He had not pressured her, though. She doubted he would. He did not seem that kind of man. 

She need not have worried, since she fell asleep in the grass and woke only once when Chris picked her up and carried her to the caravan. She hummed against his neck and nestled under his chin; the prickliness of his beard pulled warmth to the surface of her skin. 

When she woke, she was still dressed as she been the day before, and the mild relief that trickled through her made her feel guilty. Kelly had told her about that, too. The nakedness, if she chose to do it like that, and Kelly said that way was the most enjoyable, that a man’s bare skin against her own was a delight that she should discover. 

Chris was thick around the middle, but she knew the strength hidden in his arms. His skin was warmer than hers; she could feel it through his shirt when they kissed and she rested her hands on his shoulders, holding onto him. His shirts were tattered and thin; she would mend them when she had time. 

They ate together and kissed again, the taste of wild berries on their lips. Chris told her more of his life, of his four sisters and of his mother, whom Jacie thought he still loved despite his hatred for his mother’s husband. He could read, though not very well, and he could sing, though his voice was high like a girl’s. 

"I do not see how that should matter," Jacie said. Her father had often chided her to sing higher, if she insisted on singing at all. 

"It matters," Chris said, though he twisted his lips wryly. 

"I think you have a lovely voice." 

Chris grinned. "You have not even heard it." 

"I can tell such things," Jacie replied, lifting her chin in the air. She laughed when he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him, his teeth at her ear. With a tilt of her head, she shivered when he pulled her hair from her neck and kissed at it. His hand rubbed over her belly then dipped under her blouse, firm and hot on her skin. 

They spent the next handful of days like newlyweds. Inside, her body throbbed with desire for him, but her own fear muted it. It was his move to make. He was the man, yet he was also a gentleman, and he kept himself at a distance. Kelly had never told her how to get her husband to lay with her. 

"I can dance for you," Jacie said one evening as they sat by the fire. Their meal sat mostly eaten beside them, a stew Jacie had made from a rabbit Chris had caught that morning. They ate the bread that Kelly had sent with it, and Chris had fed her bites of it with his fingers, dipping them between her lips. She licked at them as though they were covered in honey. 

He gave no answer, but his eyes betrayed him as she had come to learn they did. She untangled herself from his embrace. Her fingers drifted to the bracelets that circled her wrist before she lifted her arms, her hands already hearing music though she had not yet begun to sing. It had been so long that, for a moment, her feet stayed locked in the earth, but her hips remembered and started to sway. The song rose in her throat, rushing to fill her mouth. She sang, and danced, and kept her eyes half-mast. 

The ground was cool beneath her feet, and her skirts rushed like wind around her ankles. The song was one her mother had taught her, a lullaby sung to small children, but the melody had always stirred happiness in her. It was happiness that she wanted Chris to know, her happiness. She risked a look at him and shivered when she saw it. That look again. 

She fumbled a step and fell to the grass. She skidded along it like it was ice and felt her face flush like it was fire. Lying there, in the settling dark, she expected laughter, but Chris merely helped her sit and pressed a hand on her injured ankle. How he knew it ached, she was unsure, but the blood beneath his hand pulsed. 

She watched him stand and leave, returning with her pot of scented oil. Reverently, he knelt at her feet and placed his hand back on her ankle. With the other, he dipped his fingers into the oil and spread it over her foot. It was cold at first but warmed with each press. His hands worked in tandem on her foot, kneading the lavender into her skin and erasing the dull ache. She let her eyes drift shut; her breath came in deliberate heaves. 

He moved to the uninjured foot and ran those same deliberate hands over her ankle, her toes, the arch of her sole. That touch sparked laughter in her belly, and she bent her body against her willing. The mischievous grin on his face made her blush; it deepened when he lifted her foot to his mouth and kissed it. 

"Shameless," she whispered, her toes curling in delight. 

His grin grew larger and he spread the oil past her ankle to her knee, lifting her skirt. She flushed again but watched his hands. If he pressed her to that grass, she would not protest. Her duty, she knew, but her want as well. Instead, he threaded his fingers with hers and pulled her to a stand. There, he kissed her again, his hands low on her hips, his mouth sweet like honey. 

"You know what happens?" He asked. 

"Kelly told me. I know," she whispered, combing her fingers through his hair. It was black like coal and so thick that it twisted into tendrils; the back of his neck was damp with sweat. His jaw was a line her tongue loved to trace; she followed the path to his mouth. 

In the caravan, he waited as she climbed in and arranged herself on the pillows. They were filled with feathers, and they welcomed her weight, offering her comfort. Her belly was twisting in knots already, but the rest of her body was sure it would die if he did not touch her soon. _Inside my body_ , she thought again. She had barely believed Kelly when she told her. 

"Your beauty is that what artists struggle to capture and never do," Chris said as he lit three candles then went to her. His fingers fluttered over her throat, and she opened her mouth to him. His tongue dipped into her mouth. She nearly bit it out of nervousness. "Be calm, Jacie." 

She smiled at him and nodded. He kissed her neck and her shoulders, leaving the imprint of his love on her skin. With unsteady fingers, he unlaced her blouse, and she closed her eyes. If there was something wrong, she would know by his touch, but the cool night air on her skin and the continued press of his hands forced her eyes open again. She looked down and wanted to cover herself. She felt naked already; her breasts were too small. 

"May I?" Chris asked. His shirt was already off, the dusting of dark hair on his chest and belly catching the shadows that the light threw. 

"Yes," she said and watched as he pushed the cloth completely off her shoulders. His hand cupped her right breast, nearly flat against her skin. The pleasure darted through her, but she was embarrassed still. When his mouth closed over it, she did not know whether to push him away or beg him closer. When he suckled, she thought she would die. 

They kissed until her body ached. Her legs spread of their own willing, but she still snapped her knees together when his hand dropped to her waist. He paused on the knot of her skirt, questioning, and she nodded. _My duty_ , she thought again, _he has waited long enough_. And Kelly had assured her, after losing her maidenhead, the pain would fade and be quickly replaced by pleasure. If the lover was skilled, Kelly had quickly added. 

Chris was skilled. 

She pinched her eyes tight as he moved his hand against her. His mouth had lifted to her throat, where it was kissing and licking love songs on her skin. The world was black and still, Chris’s hand the only movement, and then it was gone, snatched away. _No_ , she thought, _no_. 

She did not look as he knotted her skirt, though he pulled it too tight, and she did not look as he jerked the blouse back to her shoulders. She could not even muster surprise, though it hurt. Seventeen years as a monster, she thought she would be numb to scorn. 

"Who," Chris said. 

She opened her eyes and sat up, lifting a hand to the folds of her shirt and holding them close. His eyes would not even look at her, but hers could look nowhere else. His face was locked into stone, but his eyes burned angry. She made a sound in her throat, a small one, a noise that escaped before she could catch it, and that was all it took. 

Without warning, he grabbed her hair and pulled. Her own hands rose to her scalp for fear of losing it. She moved with him when he dragged her from the caravan. She stumbled to the grass and her skirt tangled with her legs. He yanked her so hard that she yelped like a dog and crawled on her knees to the fireside. 

"Who told you that you were a girl?" 

Jacie looked at him. She could barely see him for the tears. Regardless, his words made no sense. He thought they did, that much was clear. He was not shouting but speaking in a careful whisper. Her father had been the same way. Spoke to her always with muted hatred on his tongue. It sickened her to think Chris was like him after all. 

"Tell me," he said. When she still did not speak, Chris wrenched her head back with a snap. She wondered if his fist was tangled in her curls, that the knot was the reason he kept hurting her. Instead, she looked at him and let their eyes meet. Hers, she knew, were red with tears, but his were black as pitch and hot like fire. "Stop crying. Men do not cry." 

"I am not a man," she whispered and whimpered when he pulled again. "I am not!" 

"You have a cock, Jacie," Chris said and grabbed her between her legs. He did not squeeze, but the tension in his hand betrayed the fact he almost had. The pain, she knew, would make her sick. She had hit herself, once or twice, as a child. The pain had prickled tears in her eyes, she remembered. "You thought I would not notice?" 

"Stop it." 

"Stop what? Humiliating you like you have humiliated me?" 

"I am not a man," she repeated. 

She stared at him defiantly. He had to understand that he was wrong, that she was a girl. It was easy to confuse, she supposed, with her tall body and her flat chest, but her mother had taught her a woman’s work and had made her fancy dresses even when her father forbade it and had let her hair grow long. 

Chris pulled again and dragged her across the ground. Her knees ached, and her scalp felt as though it would tear. With a rough shove, he forced her to sit on a tree stump. His fingers dug into her shoulder. The fire danced in front of her, bright and vibrant. The heat matched the heat on her face as the tears scalded paths over her cheeks. She saw the glimmer of light first, and then the silver blade. He held her still when she tried to run. 

"No," she whispered and put her hands to her throat. He would have to cut through them if he wished to get at her. She would not go willingly into death. If she had not that instinct, she would have been long gone. The hand on her shoulder pressed until she thought her bones would crack, and she watched the blade lift and slice the air. 

But the cut did not go into her skin. The ache of her head ceased immediately, and the tears blinded her to everything else. Not even the fire that burned so brightly before her could cut the veil over her eyes. 

Chris ran; the sound his feet over the earth deafened her ears. He left her there, on a tree stump, her hair coiled like snakes on the ground. With a dirty hand, she wiped at her eyes then knelt. She gathered her hair in her hands. She would bind it with leather and keep it. 

_It is beautiful_ , she thought, _beautiful hair for a girl_. 

Which he was not.


	10. Chapter 10

Chris did not return for three nights. When he did, he stayed in the distance, like a hunter stalking his prey. Jacie would not be it. Chris had already stolen his hair. It lay in Jacie’s chest, under his dresses and his shawls, and the book of secrets he could not decipher. 

It rained like the clouds were mourning. Jacie cried with them, though he tried to still the flood. But he was lost in this world, more so than he had ever been before. His father had cast him out, Chris had cast him out. If he knew the path, he would run to Joe and Kelly and beg their help, but he had not paid much attention to the journey. 

And he slept. Those first three days, Jacie slept in the caravan, the patter of rain on the covering lulling him into a fitful sleep. He often woke in a shock, sweat gathering over his back and under his arms. The heavy cloth of his skirt was continually damp, but he would not change his clothes. If he did, then he would see his body, and he was still uneasy about it. 

He wanted to be a girl. To his mind, he was a girl, though his body would not let him be. Jacie tried to cling to the thought that Chris was wrong, that he was merely mistaken, but even he could not lie to himself. It explained something, if nothing else. At least his ugly body had been hidden for a reason. There was that, anyway. 

So Jacie slept. His dreams were horrific and confused. Fairytales his mother had told him came to the forefront, taunting him with their happy endings and lessons in life. Other times, Jacie dreamt of Chris and the way he kissed. Like Jacie had when he first started to grow in height, he woke to a stickiness in his skirt after those dreams. Jacie remembered that when he had asked about it, his mother had simply told him that such things happen to young girls as they became women. _Young boys_ , he thought now. She had lied to him. 

On the fourth night, Jacie roused himself from tortured sleep and went outside. The rain had stopped, though the world still seemed drowned. He gathered two logs from the caravan, for the fire had dwindled, and he was cold. He had only watched Chris light a flame once or twice, but the spark of the flint caught the kindling he had found with the logs. If the rain stayed, he would be fine. 

When the flame rose to heat, he cooked dinner. In the distance, he could see Chris watching him, pacing through the long grass. Chris’s clothes hung long on his body, soaked with rainwater. The wet twist of his hair tangled before his eyes, but it could not hide him. 

Jacie made him a plate and walked midway to where Chris stood, leaving it on a flat piece of ground. As he walked back, the grass caught his ankles and chilled him to the bone. The back of his neck prickled, the hair barely covering it. Jacie’s hand itched to cover it, but he would not give Chris that satisfaction. 

Chris came closer later in the evening and thrust a ball of cloth at him. Jacie grabbed it before it hit the fire. His fingers felt sore as they closed around the parcel. 

"Put them on," Chris said. He stood on the other side of the fire. His gaze was captured by it, the yellow light reflected in the darkness of his eyes. _He would rather be blinded than see_ _me_ , Jacie thought. His father’s words came back to him like a fist to the head: no one would ever want him. 

Jacie undressed right there. _As a man, it is my right_ , he thought wryly. Jacie struggled with the breeches. They were too wide around his narrow waist, and the laces on the front baffled him, though finally, with fumbling fingers, he tightened them. His hand brushed over his. Over his. _My manhood_ , Jacie thought, and brought his fists to his thighs instead. He would not touch it. Never would he lay his hands on that terrible thing. 

The shirt was much the same as the old one, thought the neckline was higher and it billowed open in the cool night’s breeze. It smelled like Chris. One of his, then, a gift. The idea made Jacie’s stomach turn. He curled his knees to his chest, his legs feeling naked in their new sheath, and he fingered the pendent around his neck. Leo the Lion; he had his place in the sky. 

Chris stayed this time, but he slept outside and would not speak. Jacie moved around him like a ghost. Sometimes, his scalp itched with the memories of the pain Chris had caused. Sometimes, Jacie went further and thought, _why did you not just slay me?_ Whenever Chris’s eyes drifted in Jacie’s direction, his body hauled back as if it remembered only upon sight what Jacie was. 

_He had loved me,_ Jacie thought. For a brief moment in his life, someone who was not his mother had truly loved him. And now, Chris did not. And his mother, whom Jacie had thought gave her love, had lied to him. Everyone had lied to him. They had fed him stories, and made him believe, and his father had let him marry a man. The warning to never return weighed heavy on Jacie’s mind. His father had known that Chris would discover his manhood. He must have. 

They danced around each other. Jacie tried to speak with him, to apologise for however it was that Chris had been wronged, but when a sound chittered in his throat, Chris’s eyes would move and the noise would die. Jacie would beg, if he had to, but Chris would not even hear it. 

So Jacie made his decision. Late at night when not even the crickets chirped, Jacie changed back into his skirt and slid out of the caravan. Chris stirred in his sleep, the rumble of his nose ceasing for a long moment, but he remained asleep. Gently, Jacie lifted Chris’s arm and slid the book under. Perhaps, it would be the apology that Jacie himself could not offer. 

Jacie walked until sunrise in the direction of the light. His belly ached from hunger. When the sun lifted in the sky, he sat and watched it. The clouds lit with brushstrokes of yellow and orange, and it was truly wondrous. Not as lovely as the stars, but few things were. 

The water was cold around his ankles when he dipped his feet in, wading to his knees. There was a story he remembered, as a child, about a girl who lived in the sea and learned to walk on legs. When her love was not returned, she threw herself from the boat into the water and let it take her. It had always struck him as morbid, but now it seemed different, clearer. 

He walked forth. The sand squished through his toes, and he thought, _if the sea does not swallow me, the earth will._ The water climbed up his legs, soaking his skirt, and the weight pulled at him, slipping down his narrow hips. He had once thought those hips could carry life. 

It chilled first his breast then his throat, and Jacie lifted his arms. He could not swim, this he knew as well as he knew anything. Jacie walked until the water lifted his feet. First, he slipped forward then down. His mouth stayed open as if he meant to sing. There was a deep lament already brewing in his chest, ready to spring forward. It was silenced by the rush of water inward. His eyes remained opened. The sun was a blur in the distance, and Jacie reached for it. 

The hand that caught his yanked him up and out. Jacie coughed the seawater from his chest then sagged under again, his body a dead weight. Arms circled his waist tighter and heaved him forth. They moved as slow as snails through the water. When he felt the shore under his feet, he fell upon it and gasped a painful breath. 

A hand folded heavy over his shoulder. He cast a quick glance back. It was only Joe. 

"Leave me be," Jacie murmured, laying his forehead on his arm. He wanted the water, the cold oblivion of death, not salvation. How could he live, being what he was? 

A warm hand rested on Jacie’s face and tilted it upwards. Joe’s eyes were warm with compassion, and Jacie knew his own eyes had betrayed him when Joe spoke with warm, gentle recognition. "Jacie? Is that you?" 

"No," Jacie said. 

Jacie would crawl back, if he had to. There was no place else to go. His father would not take him back; Chris would not take him back. And he did not belong in the world. He had no name, no land, no family. He had not even known, until a fortnight ago, how women came to bear children. He was stupid in the ways of living. 

The ways of dying were much easier to understand. 

"Come," Joe said, "you will catch your death in these wet clothes." 

"No." 

"Come with me," Joe said. When Jacie still did not move, Joe lifted him in his arms. 

There was already a fire burning, the flame and cinders crackling. Joe set him down near it, and made him hold his hands to it. If he had been braver, Jacie would have climbed into the blaze and taken his life that way. Instead, he sat where he was and let his fingers warm. 

"Here, drink," Joe said. 

Jacie took the cup and drank the warm liquid. His skin felt frozen to his bones. 

"Chris?" 

"He is fine," Jacie whispered. His voice coaxed tears to his eyes, and he shut them quickly to halt the flux. Between them, there was a moment of heavy silence, and Jacie hoped, that when he looked again, Joe would be gone. But when he did, Joe still sat there. 

All it took to break him were Joe’s fingers in his hair, knotting in the short curls. Tears so hot they burned scalded down his face, and when Joe gathered him in his arms once more, Jacie went without protest. There, Jacie wept and soaked Joe’s shirt. 

Sleep claimed him, and when he woke, he was wearing breeches and three shirts, piled over each other. It was dark, and the stars twinkled brightly. Their familiarity quelled the lurching of his stomach, and he roused himself though weariness still sagged his body. 

"I suppose that answers my question of what happened," Joe said quietly. His knees were lifted, his arms propped upon them. He looked into the fire, but the lines of his face did not seem harsh in the contrast of shadow and light. "Chris did not take it well, I imagine." 

"No," Jacie agreed, "he did not at all." 

"And you?" 

Jacie lifted his eyes to the question. Not accusing, like Chris. Curiosity held in the wrinkle above his thick brow, but that was all. An interest in why things turned as they did, and not a hatred for the same thing. "I am not at ease with this body, more so than ever before. I promise that I did not know." 

"Rest easy," Joe said. "I believe you." 

"Chris did not." 

"Chris believes very little, even when it is true, and what he does believe is often mired with falsehood. Such is his nature," Joe said. The words held a sort of sadness that Jacie recognised only instinctively, though he could almost imagine the reasons behind it. "Did he harm you, Jacie?" 

Tears prickled like dew under his eyes once more, and he did not know what to say. He had been hurt, as much in body as in mind, but he did not want Joe to think less of his friend. Chris held a reverence for Joe that Jacie had recognised immediately. 

"Your hair," Joe ventured. 

"It was cut. Men do not wear their hair that long," Jacie said quietly. The grass was chill against his toes. If he had been in his skirt, he would have tucked his feet underneath and warmed them. Instead, he stretched his legs to the fire. "It is all right. I understand why he did it." 

"It should have been your decision," Joe replied. 

A tear or two leaked down his cheek. Jacie scrubbed at them angrily. The taste of salt on his lips sickened him even more, and it was this that distracted him for a moment before he realised Joe expected a response. Jacie was unsure he could muster a sufficient one, so he let his lips mumble, "he is still my husband." 

"Then let him take responsibility for his own grievous deeds. Chris is a miserable bastard, in all senses of the word. A fundamentally good man, but one weighted with the idea that he must suffer. That he was born to bear that sorrow upon his shoulders." 

"You speak in riddles," Jacie muttered. 

"It will become clearer, as you get to know him," Joe replied, unfurling his legs and standing up. Dust clung to his breeches and he brushed at it idly before lifting his head once more. "Come. Let us sleep. Tomorrow will be better, Jacie. You have your place in the world. And please, for all that is holy, promise me you will not swim again." 

"I cannot swim," Jacie said. 

Joe’s lips turned with sadness. "I know."


	11. Chapter 11

Chris was old enough to remember the night his mother left him with the church. The clergyman who answered the knock had clucked at him, like a chicken did when it was agitated, and did not even ask why a young boy was alone on his stoop. _Why would he?_ Chris thought. He knew as they all knew. Chris spent the next ten years of his life serving a god his mother had never even believed in. He learned of pain, and sacrifice, and hypocrisy. 

When his mother returned, he was a small waif of a boy in his fourteenth year, and vicious. They had never tried to teach him anything, and he would not have let them regardless. He blamed the church for his sorrow, and it was with great relief for the clergymen that his mother came to the doors one night. He had long before stopped being their concern. 

His mother’s husband tried to tame him with a belt, and a paddle, and hard labour in the fields as if he was an ox. His mother tried to do it with her love, and sometimes, when the hurt that had attached itself to his skin at such a young age dwindled, he let her. But the fact remained he was the bastard son of a righteous man. Very few people had been able to forgive Chris for his birth. 

Joe had. 

And Jacie. 

Chris saw them riding in the distance, a speck like coal along the line of the earth. They were nearly past before he was noticed, and Chris nearly turned tail and fled. When Chris had first woken to find Jacie missing, he felt relief, but the longer Jacie stayed away, the more the worry settled in the pit of Chris’s belly. Now that knot tightened, and he felt no better to see him. 

Neither man spoke to him. 

The silence was as heavy as Chris’s guilt.


	12. Chapter 12

They were five days into the journey before a single world was uttered to him. It came so suddenly that Chris thought that he had imagined it. When Joe sat beside him, Chris knew he had not. A hysteria rose in his body, and if Joe tried to move away, to tease him with this contact then steal it back, Chris would grab for him. He would beg. 

"You look like shit," Joe said. 

"Aye." His fingers twitched. "Feel like it, too." 

"Good," Joe said, and that was all. To Chris, it was enough to let him nap as having spent his nights tossing fretfully, sleeping outside on the grass. The fire was enough to keep him warm, at least until morning, but the heat another body provided had no substitute. 

Chris never felt the distance as deeply as he did when he and Joe sat side by side during their ride across the countryside. In the back, Jacie slept. He slept too much, like he had when he had first come to them. The guilt followed Chris like the soul of a damned ghost. 

"I acted in anger, I admit it, but can you not fathom for a moment that I was within my right?" The words tumbled out unexpectedly as Joe brushed the coat of Joseph the Third. Chris had been attempting the same with Alistair, but the beast had bitten his hand and bent to graze instead. "That it was, perhaps, a shock to me?" 

"I can grant you that, aye," Joe said. 

"My bride is a man," Chris said. 

"As I have seen." Joe brushed down the thick flanks of Joseph the Third’s legs. 

"And still, you are angry at me. What was I to do, Lord Joseph? Enlighten me. Tell me how an intelligent man born to wealth and privilege would react, as opposed to a poor and ignorant Traveller who is obviously well below you. Tell me, and I will keep it in mind for the next time I discover the woman I have wed is possessed of a cock." 

"Perhaps, Kilpatrick, it would have crossed your dim brain to apologise. To tell him that he is welcome here. A fancy notion, that is," Joe said. 

Chris stalked away, anger coursing through his veins. It took until nightfall for the rage to disperse, and it left him tired and hungry. Jacie had emerged from the caravan. His hair curled around his face like a halo. If only his face had been scarred. If only it had been as simple as that. Chris had prepared himself for the worst, except the reality was much more than his imagination had allowed. 

If there was nothing else he despised, it was being to made to feel like one of his mother’s husband’s oxen: dumb and used. Here, he knew another man’s burden had been passed onto him. And he was as daft as those stupid beasts for not realising it. So his anger was justified, as much as the guilt, this he knew like he knew his mother’s face even after ten years. 

And his eyes. Chris could not look at them without remembering. They were the only constant in this shaken world of his. The eyes as blue as the sky, as the ocean; they caught the light and held it. They cradled Jacie’s very soul like it was young babe in need of protection. 

Jacie still performed a woman’s work. Chris thought of telling him to stop, to let them all cook like he and Joe had done before, but that would require speaking to him, which Chris could not bring himself to do. And Chris, selfishly, wanted to eat well. Food was a comfort. 

It rained that night, a harsh downpour that made him wish he had set the tent, if they had even packed it at all. If there was a god, he was laughing at him, the cruel spread of teeth that bore the likeness to a wild dog’s mouth seconds before it lunged. 

Entirely out of frustration, his eyes threatened to leak drops of rainwater, and the same song rang through his ears: men do not cry. Had he not grabbed Jacie’s hair, slicing through it like it raw meat, and said just that? Crying was for women and young girls, cranky babes who needed to be coddled. 

For effeminate men who did not understand their role. 

The rain came harder, like a mighty fist upon a drum. The grass bent to the earth, and the mud rose to meet it. He stood to seek shelter, but there was nothing to cover him. Two skittish horses and a dying tree, and a caravan he could not enter. _The gates of heaven_ , Chris thought wryly, then lost his footing. The earth swallowed him into her wet embrace. 

"You insane goat! Get in here!" 

Joe shouted it loud enough that it sliced through the wind like a knife. Chris tilted his head, to get a glimpse of him, and was shamed to know Jacie was there, watching. _My wife_ , Chris thought, and laughed hysterically into the storm. _My wife! My wife, such a lovely man._ His mother would be proud to know he had picked such a bride. The only one who would have him. A man! 

"Come," Joe said, and heaved Chris under the arms until he stood. 

Chris felt laughter on his tongue and let it free, his legs like warm wax under him. Like a breath, he felt the strength rush out of him, and when he opened his eyes again, it was morning. The world was dry, like it had never cried, and Chris was folded under Joe. His snores were the usual stampede of horses. Joe did not stir when Chris moved away. 

Outside, Jacie sat by the fire, goading it back to flame. His face was wrapped with that damnable veil, just eyes again, like nothing else existed beyond what the world could see. His gaze was captured by the fire, and Chris’s by Jacie himself. _Not so different_ , Chris thought, which was where his terror lay. Jacie moved like the girl Chris had loved. Jacie’s eyes, jewels of beauty. 

"Take that off," Chris said. 

"I do not belong here," Jacie replied, stoking the fire with a brittle stick that snapped in two under the pressure. His eyes never strayed, but the defeat had already sunk into his broad shoulders. Defeat that Chris had placed there. "I am an intruder. I will not make you sick in your own life. If you cannot bear to look at me-" 

"I would rather you live here in truth than in a lie. There is nothing wrong with you," Chris said. It was not an apology, but he meant it as one. It was the best he could offer when his own head was still so muddled, when part of him wished to send Jacie away, far away, where Chris would not have to think about what they had done, what they had almost done. 

Slowly, Jacie reached to his face and unwrapped it. His nose was still too big, but it matched his face better than it had in Chris’s mind. The slant of his lips were just as Chris imagined; his cheeks, far more striking. Strange looking, even for a man, with the beauty etched in his skin. Like no man Chris had seen before, which excused nothing, but Chris could see how he had been fooled. It was not so easy to see, even knowing it intimately. 

"I did not know, Chris," Jacie said. His eyes were like the rolling sea. They held mysteries Chris had no hope of unravelling, but there was the truth, glimmering in the corners. Brusquely, Chris nodded, but it seemed not the response that Jacie desired for his shoulders slipped further. "I will not bother you. My burden is no longer yours." 

"If you need any help." 

"I will manage. Is it not time I learn? A man must know certain things." 

"Aye," Chris said. 

Once more, Jacie poked at the fire with his broken twig, and it roared in protest, like the fearsome cry of a lion. Chris’s eyes flickered like flame. He still wore it, the pendent. It still hung around his slender neck, gathered into the dip at the base of his throat. Turning, Chris forced his eyes elsewhere then marched back to the caravan. 

He returned with the book, a solid weight in his hands. He had not read it. He had not dared. Jacie looked up from the fire, first at Chris’s face then down to his hands. Chris held the book out, an offering of peace, another unspoken apology. Long fingers, elegant like the necks of swans, took it and held it close. 

"What is it?" 

"A book my mother gave me on her deathbed." 

"And what does it say?" 

"I do not know. I cannot read." 

Of course. Chris knew that, but still he asked, like he was desperate just to exchange words with this man who had been his wife. "You can be taught. Not by me, I am no scholar, but Joe could. If you wished him to, he could teach you. He is not as dumb as his ugly face would suggest," Chris added and quirked a smile. 

It was returned as a small twist on Jacie’s lips. "Perhaps. If he consents." 

"He will. And if not him, I will do it." 

"Then I will ask him," Jacie said. 

"Or me." 

"Or you." 

Chris nodded and turned. The grass slicked under his feet as though the rain was still falling, and he walked with clacking knees until his back was against the caravan, his breath harsh in his throat. His wife, a man. 

Jacie still held such beauty locked in his eyes.


	13. Chapter 13

Danielle was, among other things, a dressmaker, Chris said. She lived above her shop with a small girl, older than Brianna had been, who hid in her mother’s skirts and approached Joe with the caution children extended to the unknown. Joe merely scooped the young girl in his arms and peppered her with kisses. 

"My daughter, Marie. And Danielle," Joe added. 

Danielle nodded. Her hair was as pale as corn’s silk, hanging long and straight down her body. She was not as affectionate with Joe as Kelly had been. They were civil and friendly, but there was no warmth to it. Chris caught him watching them at dinnertime. 

"Danielle was none too pleased when she found herself with child. Joe has done more than any other man would have done for her, but it will never be enough," Chris said lowly before disappearing down the stairs, his boots loud as he walked. 

Chris spoke to him more with each passing day, which was something. Or nothing, Jacie would admit. The mere sound of his voice could raise the hair on Jacie’s neck. It was never entirely bad, the sensation, but the memories of what they had almost done plagued him. It seemed, once desire had awakened in him, it would not lay to rest again, nor would it redirect itself to the right and proper course. 

It seemed more than a fortnight since his world had tumbled down. Some mornings, he opened his eyes and thought it all a dream. On others, he could barely stir himself to consciousness, a dread in his belly so heavy that his legs buckled with the weight. He did not feel like a man. He knew it in his mind, but his heart was not so easily swayed. 

Late at night, he crept down to the shop with an oil lamp in his hand and admired Danielle’s dresses. They were fitted at the waist, with ribbon and lace sewn to the soft fabric. He thought they would be heavy, but the one he held was as light as air and cool on his fingers. The light burned on the desk. It shone bright enough that he could see himself in the mirror as he held the dress to his body. 

The creak of the staircase caused his head to turn. Joe stood on the bottom step, wearing only his breeches. His black hair twisted in all directions, sleep etched all over him. And Jacie stood with a dress against him, his body twisted like it had been dancing. He had. 

"Danielle would not mind if you tried it on," Joe said. His voice held a note of caution, though for whom, Jacie did not know. The flesh on his face crawled with heat, and Jacie wished for the shadow to swallow him whole. "Come. I will lace the back for you." 

Surely it was a dream. He undressed with a slowness he felt to the bone. Joe held out the dress and held it so he could slip into it. It was silk and smooth against his skin, a softness he had never felt with his own dresses. He had been dressed in the cheapest fabrics, ugly and rough. They had never fit right. This dress curved to him. 

"This is nice," Joe said. He hooked his finger into the leather of the pendent. 

"Chris gave it to me as a wedding gift," Jacie said. He followed his own lips in the mirror, Chris had kissed his mouth, had suckled it and drank of it. But the sight would not hold in his eyes and fogged over as the wetness took them. "I wish he had not told me." 

"It is better that you know." 

Jacie touched his throat and wet his lips with his tongue. In the mirror, he saw a woman do all of that, elegant and beautiful, but when he looked deeper, all he saw was a man with his big nose and sculpted face wearing a costume he had no right to don. 

"I hate those breeches I am made to wear," Jacie said. The fabric of the skirts swished as he moved them with his hands, stretching a long leg out in front of him. Underneath the hem, his foot was black with dirt, but the move stretched his body and erased the harsh masculinity. 

Joe’s face crinkled with a smile. "I would not recommend wearing skirts on the street, but in private, no one will stop you, Jacie." 

"Chris." 

His eyes darkened. "Chris has no say in your matters. He never did." 

"He did at one point." 

Jacie did not know why he was so insistent about it, but he could not stop the defence from springing to his lips. It was angry, quick to his tongue, and he felt it pulse in his blood. Joe looked at him sadly as if he had no response to it. 

"He should not have," Joe finally said. His hand settled warm on Jacie’s shoulder. "Be glad to be a man. Women, they are such vibrant creatures, and so many waste away in their lives, minds denied to them. They can be poets and artisans and actresses just as they can be mothers and wives. You have a freedom now, based solely on what lies between your legs." 

"I hate it," Jacie said. "I want to cut it off." 

"You would bleed out and die slowly, if you did." 

"It is ugly." 

"Perhaps." 

In the mirror, the woman sagged with defeat. Jacie let his eyes close. Blue as the sky, Chris had said, beautiful. Tears lined his eyes again, and he let them coat his cheeks. The palm of Joe’s hand was dry as it caught and cradled them. 

"When I was a young boy, I had great dreams," Joe said. Gently, he circled Jacie’s waist and turned him around. Once there, he put one hand on Jacie’s side and used the other to twist their fingers together. It was instinctive, then, the way to dance. 

"My father used to have courtly parties with beautiful women and talented minstrels. His lands were vast, his power more so, and his riches unending. He told my brothers and I of all the great things we could do, the great people we would become. I believed him as I would never have thought to mistrust my father." 

Joe seemed to be another man in that moment, taller and more regal. He held himself with the ease that the wealthy had, the belief that the world was theirs. They would never know hunger, disease, poverty. Jacie’s father had hated them, especially the English. They were not welcome on Ireland’s shores, he said. They did not love the land as he did. 

"But I was the third born son. My eldest brother, Steven, these things would be his and his alone. My other brother, John, entered the knighthood and went to England to serve. And I was to join the church, so they sent me to a monastery," Joe said. 

Jacie felt there was more to this than he understood, and his look must have spoken it clearly, for Joe smiled and laughed, dancing him across the floor, his hand spread like a fan on Jacie’s hip. They barely made any noise at all. 

"A monk lives a life of celibacy. No women. They give themselves to god, and it is expected to be enough. Perhaps, for some men, it would be, but I love too much and too freely. This I know. But it is a fault I am unwilling to fix, even given the chance." 

"Was your father angry?" 

"For a time. But I am bull-headed, and he knew I would not go back after so many years spent wasting there. And he also knew that if I was pushed, he would lose me forever," Joe said quietly. They had stopped dancing, and Jacie had not even noticed. Now, they merely stood face to face, as though they were equals. 

"He took you back?" 

Joe dipped his head, and for a moment, his face disappeared behind the shadow of his hair. "Aye, but I could never return as I had been. I disobeyed my father, and though he still loved me, it was still a dishonour to the family. So instead, I set out on my own, but he knows, as I know myself, that I am happy." 

The words stayed in him as he pondered it. Joe moved behind him and unlaced the bodice, whisking it from his body. In the mirror, the woman disappeared completely. Jacie touched a careful hand to his breast then between his legs, his _manhood_. His fingers lingered for just a moment until the unsettled feeling once again overtook him. 

"You are not expected to accept this quickly. It has scarcely been a fortnight." 

He looked at Joe, the kindness in his eyes, and nodded to assuage him. 

"You are a talented liar, Jacie. You remind me of Chris," Joe said. 

Jacie slipped into his clothes as Joe hung the dress. It was either the highest compliment or the greatest insult. As Joe climbed the stairs with footsteps of ghosts, Jacie felt the question fall from his lips, but it was not the query he expected. 

"Will you teach me to read?" 

"If you wish," Joe said. 

"I do." 

"Then I will." He tipped his head. "Sleep well, Jacie." 

"And you," Jacie replied. Joe smiled then walked into the night, gone from sight, but his words lingered like a fog. Jacie thought of them as he admired the remaining dresses, the oil lamp held tightly in one hand. The storm in his soul quelled, if only for an instant.


	14. Chapter 14

Jacie had never seen magic before. He had heard about it, through stories his mother told him about all-powerful sorcerers and his father’s vocal dislike of roving magicians. He did not trust men who could bend the world to suit their needs. He had remembered Chris speaking of magic. _It was all used to make people believe things that are untrue._ But it seemed real to Jacie, who watched the flower in Chris’s hand disappear. 

"You have not lost the touch," Joe said. 

"I feel like I have," Chris murmured. 

Chris had been in a state all morning, sullen, nervous. It had been a month, if not more, since he had touched his trade, and he was mired with doubt. He had not said all this to Jacie, but Jacie understood it nonetheless. Still, to him, it seemed as though Chris’s worries were in vain. His hands were twisting reality with every glide. 

Joe mixed potions in small clay bowls, grinding the weeds and crystals into fine powders. Glass vials stood in a row, each marked with letters Jacie could not read. He recognised few on their own, and he still could not remember what they all meant together. Learning to read was a slow and frustrating process. 

Joe had scrawled down the words to Jacie’s favourite lullaby in a big, careful script. The song was already deep in his memory, but it was proving near impossible to match the song he knew with the markings on the parchment. He skipped food at noon to study and did not notice when Joe and Chris left to collect a crowd. There was a rainbow of fabric hanging from the sparse branches the caravan sat under. They fluttered in the wind like birds’ wings. 

Chris returned and sat quietly nearby. His fingers twisted together as if caught in a storm. Jacie glanced at him then let his eyes fall back to his page. The ties of Chris’s shirt had been loosened, the pale skin of his chest revealed. He looked exotic. Handsome. Jacie felt the heat spread over him like the sun had lifted in the sky, instead of just set, as it had. 

He looked up again when Chris and Joe started arguing. Over what, he could not hear, but they seemed to be missing something. There was already a crowd. Common townspeople, peasants. Lowly folk, though not as low as them, men and their wives, with small, dirty children dressed in plain clothing. Seated in front was a collection of young ladies, their hair done up, their breasts hidden in plain sight. 

Joe grabbed Chris by the chin and wiped black charcoal around his eyes. Still, they spoke to each other quickly, their faces serious. Jacie strained to hear them but could understand the anxiety nonetheless. Chris lined Joe’s eyes. They exchanged more words then ducked back into the caravan, searching. Outside, the crowd grew restless. 

"What troubles them?" Jacie asked Danielle, who had Marie on her lap. In the child’s hand was a twisted knot of rags that she called _Joe_ and treated as though it was her friend. Jacie had helped make the doll a robe days before with one of his veils, and it still wore the dress, with a wildflower tucked into its neck. 

"Joe has lost one of his powders," Danielle said. Her voice held a flavour that Joe and Chris’s words did not. The sound of her words held a note that reminded him of his mother. "They will lose more, if they do not find it. These people already mistrust them." 

"Why?" 

"Your kind are liars and scoundrels, and they have already given their coin," Danielle replied. She lifted Marie in her arms and sat elsewhere. He knew that she did not like Chris, but he had not realised she held the same dislike for him. In her head, he imagined they were both the same. In his own, Chris could not be more different. 

He stood and walked behind the caravan. With touch, he traced the rounds of his eyes with the charcoal and blinked wetly when the powder dipped into his eyes. He could hear Joe and Chris arguing still, their voices carrying a hysterical pitch. 

Joe had shown him what the white powder did when tossed into flame, so he dipped his hand into the pot and cupped a handful. At the head of the crowd was a fire, the flames reaching high. The ire of the crowd seemed to feed it; the men already had their faces burning. With a toss of his hand, he let go the powder into the flame and felt his heart jump to his throat. 

He had nothing to work with but his body and his voice. At all times, he was aware of himself, but he also let his mind soar above the crowd. He sang songs of epic battles, of love on the rocky shores of Ireland, of loss and heartache and all things in between. And he moved as though his feet were not held to the earth but freed to roam as they chose. 

He twisted his arms above his head and clapped his hands. The sound was like thunder to his ears, but he thought instead that he was hearing his own heart as it thumped in his ears. He circled the fire closely, the flame singeing his legs, and danced mostly for the ladies, who watched with faces locked on him. 

When he saw Chris and Joe in the darkness, waiting, he ended the song, and nearly leapt from his skin when the fire exploded again, sparks of white and orange thrown into the night’s sky. An arm cinched his waist and pulled him back, into the caravan, and he spent the remainder of the night inside, waiting. 

He woke when Joe folded a small pouch into his hand. His eyes felt like hay, and he rubbed at them. The stinging pain travelled deeper, and Joe held a damp cloth to his face. The coal still stung long after it had been washed away. The packet in his hand was just a blur. 

"You are a vault of secrets," Joe said quietly. His smile touched his eyes. 

"Danielle said you would lose much if you waited much longer." 

"Aye. Clever of you, to do what you did. Almost as if it was planned," Joe added. He dragged the cloth over his own face, scrubbing at the blackness. The collar of his shirt was dark and damp with sweat; someday, Jacie thought, he would like to see the show. "Your share." 

Jacie followed the arch of Joe’s glace down to his own hand. He lifted the pouch then opened it. A collection of small gold coins tumbled into his palm. They were inscribed with letters and other symbols that Jacie did not know. "Mine?" 

"Aye. Perhaps, you would think to buy yourself some boots and some breeches that fit," Joe said. With a deft hand, he unlaced his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. They were broad and strong; Jacie watched as he moved the cloth over his skin. It glistened pale in the light from the oil lamp Joe had lit. Joe caught his look and lifted an eyebrow. "Jacie." 

It took all the strength in his body to pull his eyes away. 

Joe smiled. "We move in two days. Tomorrow, get boots and breeches. Tonight, sleep the sleep of the saved. We will live to see another day," Joe said and tapped his fingers against the rise of Jacie’s cheek. Hunched over, he stood and jumped from the caravan. Jacie closed his fingers over his coins then slipped them back into the pouch. 

The grass was cool and damp. The dark sky loomed huge overhead, the blackness marked with specks of white light. He scarcely noticed when the caravan began to roll, Joe and a girl who was not Danielle sitting aside him. Jacie tied the bag of coins to his breeches. 

When he looked up, he noticed Chris standing there. His fingers were at his mouth. Chris stood as if he had expected not to be noticed then was surprised when Jacie did. When caught, his body straightened as if to pretend Chris had not been looking at all. Chris’s eyes were still lined in black that matched his hair. 

"Come with me," Chris finally said. The words came haltingly. 

Jacie followed him into town, his bare toes sinking into the mud of the streets. He did not like this town. Too many people and not enough space to live. It smelled of horse droppings and human waste. Jacie would buy boots if only to save his feet from the grime as he walked in it. 

Chris wove through the maze of alleys, and Jacie stayed close behind. They moved onto stone passages. The rough and jagged surface scrapped at the soles of Jacie’s feet and sliced into them. His money purse jiggled merrily against his hip. He focussed on that instead of the pain. 

The suddenness of their stop startled Jacie out of his thoughts. A woman stood before him. Her heaving breasts were revealed to the point of indecency. Chris had settled into the darkness, but he was still there. Jacie could see his mud-soaked boots where the light touched. 

The woman took Jacie’s hand, her fingers small and delicate, and led him up a narrow staircase. He expected Chris to follow, but there was no echo of footsteps. The room was small and empty save a burning oil light and a bed. He sat down there, for that was where she led him. 

Jacie watched as she disrobed. The knots on her blouse tangled, and she struggled until the shirt fell open and bared her breasts. They were round and sagging, capped with darker nubs of flesh. Jacie looked at them with envy, which he doubted would please Chris to know. The anger that rose in Jacie was quickly swallowed down. The girl did not need to see it. 

When she was bared, Jacie looked to the floor. The thatch of gold between her legs was the same honey blonde of her hair, and it covered a flatness that settled a sense of knowing in Jacie’s head. He had not truly understood the difference until then. The dangling piece of flesh between his legs was so obviously nothing a girl possessed. 

It embarrassed him to have her stand there. He tugged the blanket off the bed then wrapped her in it, covering her shoulders so only her face was showing. She was as young as he, though her eyes seemed ancient. Without speaking, he untied the coins from his waist and put them into her hand. She looked at him, startled. 

"The cost has already been settled." 

"I do not need it," Jacie said. 

Chris still stood where he had been when Jacie left. If Jacie had known the way back to Danielle’s house, he would have gone there without speaking to him, but the tightening of Chris’s shoulders seem to indicate a question, even if he would not dare to ask it. 

"Why are you so cruel to me?" 

Chris’s eyes lifted. "I am not." 

"Please take me back," Jacie said. He struggled to keep his voice even, but the anger in him lurched and peppered his words. Chris did not move. Jacie’s skin felt hot, but the burning settled in his eyes. He wished again that Joe had let the river take him. 

"I meant no harm," Chris said. 

"Take me back," Jacie repeated. The mud on his sore feet itched like he had walked through straw, and when Chris still did not move, he walked. He no longer cared if he was lost. _Perhaps_ , he thought wryly, _it would let me finish what the water started_. This was no life, not trapped in this horrible body, more alone with two people than he ever had been with himself. _No_ , he thought. Joe was kindhearted; Chris was not. 

"I saw the women look at you this evening." 

"You should have seen that I did not look back," Jacie said. The filth of the village crept up his legs, and he could feel the heavy weight of it clinging to his breeches. His detestation for this place was suffocating. He would leave tomorrow if he could map the way. 

"You should look back." 

Jacie stopped. _How dare he_ , Jacie thought. "You do not." 

The silence between them was thick like honey but not as sweet. Jacie could feel Chris’s gaze on his back, the bare of his neck. He tipped his head, exposing more of it. There had been a time when Chris had pressed his mouth to that skin and kissed it. 

"I look," Chris said. 

Jacie felt a wind touch his bones. He thought, _I know_ , but did not say it.


	15. Chapter 15

Chris kept to himself while Joe taught Jacie to ride. It had taken him half the morning to get Jacie onto Alistair of his own volition, for the damned beast would neither stand still nor make it easy. He nipped and neighed and taunted; Chris hated the damn thing and wished it would fall right there, if only to spare Jacie a bloody nose and more bruises. 

They were a week out of town. Joe had been sullen for most of the journey. He hated, Chris knew, to leave Marie behind. She was his first, the one by which he had been truly surprised, and his impression on her was not at all set by Danielle. But today, his mood seemed brighter. 

"If you land lightly, it will not hurt as much," Joe was saying, as Jacie landed on Alistair’s back with a wince painted on his face. It was a subtle reminder. There were moments when Chris wondered if he simply forgot, as if such a thing could be lost from memory. 

"It will not stop moving," Jacie said, sliding to the ground. His feet were still bare. Mud coated them like boots. He had given all his money to the whore out of pity, so he still walked in britches too big for him and toes that touched the earth. Sweat spread across Jacie’s shoulders and soaked his shirt. "And it will not stop biting at me." 

Chris started dinner, putting a pot to boil over the fire. He looked up as Jacie dismounted, landing hard and crumbling to the grass. Jacie’s hands moved to his feet and squeezed them. His face was a twist of pain. Joe rode up beside him, high on his horse’s back. 

"You did not buy boots," Joe said. 

Chris stared at the flame. His stomach felt uneasy. 

"A beggar needed the coins. I gave them to her," Jacie said and pushed until he stood. From where he sat, Chris could see pain flicker over his face before it was swallowed. He smiled. "I landed upon a rock. I did not see it there. I am fine." 

"Get boots," Joe repeated. The bob of Jacie’s head seemed to sate him, and he lifted his chin. "Come. Let us try again." 

Chris cooked as they struggled. To Chris’s relief, Alistair had ceased tossing his riding companion, but he had, instead, taken to ignoring him, prancing off to eat at a knot of bushes. Joe spent half his breath yelling at the beast. Alistair did not seem to hear him at all. 

"Kilpatrick, how do you ride this beast?" 

Chris looked up to Joe’s smiling face. "He lets me when he feels like it." 

"I would offer Joseph the Third, but he is bad with strangers," Joe said. 

Jacie nodded. "I know." 

Chris ate his bread as they continued with the lesson. It had rained all morning, which made the earth soft. But still, each time Jacie fell to the ground, Chris’s legs twitched, and each time he got up, Chris felt relief wash over him like a flood. He worried more about Jacie than he ought. There was something about him today that made Chris wary. 

It was good to see him awake, if only to chase around a demented horse. He spent too much time sleeping, lost beneath the blankets in the back as Joe or Chris took the reins. Joe said the melancholy had him, though he would say nothing more on the subject. 

Alistair streaked by, kicking up mud and grass, and Joe chased after him, Joseph the Third snorting like a pig as he galloped. On the rogue beast’s back, Chris could see Jacie clinging and slipping further with each bound of the horse. His face was sickly pale. Sighing, Chris put his fingers to his mouth and whistled loud. Alistair pranced up like nothing was amiss. Jacie’s eyes were so wide they captured the sky. 

"You could not have done that sooner?" Joe asked. 

"That has not solved your problem. He will grow bored in a heartbeat and be off again." Alistair chewed at the grass then moved to Joseph the Third’s hoof, getting a shot to the nose instead. Spurned, he walked away. "Aye. There he goes. Offer something to keep his interest. Do we have any fruit?" 

"I will not barter with so coy an animal," Joe said. "He is probably just hungry." 

"Danielle gave us apples," Jacie said. A line of crimson blood trickled from his nose, and he wiped at it with his sleeve. Joe rolled his eyes, but he nodded. As Jacie moved toward the caravan, Joe turned his look on Chris, whose shoulders lifted then settled again. 

A bruised apple settled Alistair slightly. By evening, Jacie was riding, though unsteadily. He walked bow-legged when he was finally set to ground again, the weight of exhaustion heavy on his bones. Joe tied the horses then joined them at the fire, accepting the stew Chris offered. 

"You will be a rider in no time," Joe said, breaking off a piece of bread, "if Chris’s horse should allow you that much." 

"He laughs at me," Jacie murmured. 

"The horse? Aye, he does, but that is a horse for you. Wily creatures and far too coy," Joe said. He ripped a square of bread then tossed it to Joseph the Third, who caught it in his mouth. He did the same to Alistair; the beast scarcely noticed when it smacked his nose. "Well, I speak of mine anyway." 

"Mine knows I have cooked. Tell me which one is the smarter of the two," Chris replied. Joe laughed, and Chris mirrored it. Jacie stayed silent, though his lips twisted in something not quite a smile. Chris’s heart paused. "Are you well?" 

"Jacie?" Joe said when he did not answer. 

Jacie’s shoulders jerked as if he had just heard them. He simply nodded. 

Joe frowned but held his tongue. Chris wiped a piece of bread through the steaming soup and chewed at it. It felt dry like cloth in his mouth. As the night pressed on, Chris seldom spoke, merely listening as Joe told of his adventures with a virgin who held a lust for bodily pleasures as he did. Between them, Chris and Joe finished the pot of stew. Jacie ate nothing at all. When Joe complained of a lingering hunger, Jacie poured his stew into Joe’s bowl. 

"Are you not hungry?" Joe asked, halting his story. 

"No," Jacie said. He rolled his head into his hand, the curls of his hair spilling around his wrist. Beneath him, his legs, long like the legs of a colt, shifted. From where he sat, Chris could see the bottoms of his feet. Beneath the dried mud, they were cut and an angry red covered his soles. Cautiously, Chris held a finger at one and pressed. Jacie kicked the bowl from his hand and into the fire. Chris’s finger came away slick with dark fluid. 

"Joe," Chris said, "his feet." 

"Let me see." 

"It is nothing," Jacie said, lifting his head. His brow shimmered with the shine from the flame; his eyes were small. The blue had been swallowed by shadows. 

"Aye, perhaps. But I would truly hate to lop your feet at the ankles." 

Joe placed his bowl on the ground then circled the fire. He knelt and gently took a foot in his hand, cupping it at the heel. He pressed a thumb at it, and Jacie’s leg kicked again, knocking Joe into the dirt. Joe merely brushed the filth from his breeches then walked to the caravan. He returned with three vials, a clay bowl, a handful of root and a basin of water, two cloths hooked over his arm. One of them he twisted and put it between Jacie’s teeth. 

"Hold him," Joe said. "Jacie, this will hurt, but I beg of you, realise this is for the best." 

Chris laced his arms over Jacie’s and crossed his hands on his chest like a cross. The beat of Jacie’s heart was hard and fast, like rain in a storm, but his body was still, his breathing even. His hair was wet and smelled of lavender. It took all Chris’s strength to keep his nose from it. 

The first touch of the cloth to Jacie’s feet and his whole body tightened like the crack of a whip. Chris gripped him tighter, anchoring a leg over his legs; he was slippery from fever, difficult to hold. The piece in his mouth muffled his sounds, but they still dug into Chris’s ears, frantic, painful. Joe continued undeterred, his weight settled on Jacie’s legs as he cleaned. 

The fight surged in him when Joe poured the powder into his wounds and scrubbed at the diseased flesh. Chris held tighter, wrapping around him like a serpent, and took the pain Jacie suffered as his own, his hands scratching at Chris’s arms to be freed. He screamed through the cloth in his mouth, but still Chris held firm. His fevered flesh wept, and his eyes went grey, wide but empty, until, finally, with one heaving breath his body went lax. 

"His heart." 

"It still beats," Chris said. "He has fainted." 

"Better for him, then." 

Joe turned his head. "I need more water, and he needs blankets." 

Chris pried his hands apart and took off his own shirt to make a pillow for Jacie’s head. The sickness had come too fast; it had most likely been there all day, and they had made him ride horses. Not one word of complaint. Chris forced himself to walk away, his feet heavy like rocks. Inside the caravan, he opened Jacie’s chest and took out the stack of blankets. 

"What do you hide?" Chris murmured, running his hand over the book. He itched to open it, to read it. He should have, when Jacie had left it with him, but he had not been able to do it. And Jacie was too stubborn, too proud, to have it read to him. 

Under the heavy book lay a folded dress. Cautiously, Chris picked it up. One of Danielle’s. Low in the neck, with a finely embroidered bodice. She made dresses for wealthy women who had not the skill to sew their own. This one was plainer than most; Chris sniffed at it. The fabric held the dull scent of lavender. 

"What is this?" Chris shouted, holding the dress in his hand. 

"A gift," Joe replied. He had looked up briefly then returned to Jacie’s feet, spreading a balm on the raw flesh. From where stood, Chris could see the blood flow freely, darks snakes of liquid sliding across the grass and between Joe’s fingers. 

Returning inside, Chris folded the dress and set it back. He gathered the blankets and a canteen of water. He set them down in the grass. Jacie’s breath came quick; he shook and shivered despite the heat of his skin. Chris pulled the cloth from his mouth and wet it. Gently, he laid it over Jacie’s brow, mopping the sweat. 

Vague consciousness settled on Jacie as Joe bandaged. His eyes were open, but he looked beyond Chris, as if he was as tangible as air. The colour in them was dulled. A trick of the firelight perhaps, but Chris was sure the blueness had seeped away, siphoned by the infection. 

"His eyes are pale," Chris said. 

"The fever has them. Keep wetting his face, Chris." 

Joe returned his attention to Jacie, and Chris dipped the cloth back into the bowl. The water was as cool as the settling night. Their drinking water, and not much left. Tomorrow, they had thought to move closer to the river. Now, Chris wished they had done it sooner. The fire raging over Jacie’s skin needed a lake to soothe it. 

"This will not be enough," Chris said, wringing the cloth between his fingers. His grip was weak. He had just enough strength to return it to Jacie’s face, bathing away the gleam of sweat. Jacie’s lips murmured but no words were offered. 

"Aye. We need more, and more of the healing root," Joe said as he stood. He removed a torch from the caravan and lit it. He grabbed two empty canteens, hooking them over his shoulder. "Stay with him, Chris. Do not fall asleep. Keep him cool and dry. If I am not back by morning, change the poultice on his feet. I have left just enough." 

"If I should run into trouble?" 

"God help you, then." Joe untied Joseph the Third from the tree, climbing onto its back. The horse reared back, nervous as if it could sense the trouble, and Joe petted its mane. "Talk to him, Kilpatrick. Convince him the world of the living is where he wishes to be." 

"I doubt that he would listen to me. I am to blame for this." 

"He would listen to no one else." He twisted his fist in the reins and kept the other secured around the torch. He would be able to see very little, Chris knew, but Joe was not the sort of man to wait until morning. "Guard his soul, Chris. This fever worries me." 

"Why did he say nothing?" 

"Have we heard a word of complaint from him since he joined us?" 

"No," Chris said. He looked to Jacie, whose eyes were still open and blank. His hair clung to his brow; his skin was waxen with sweat. _Close_ , Chris thought, _the touch of death is all around him_. Chris pulled his gaze away. "Be gone, Joe. I will be fine with him." 

"Aye. You will be." 

At a click of his tongue, Joe rode off fast into the night. The torch faded in the distance, a sun shrinking into a star, and they were alone. The crackle of fire was the only song the night would offer in comfort. Chris pulled the cloth from Jacie’s brow and wet it again. 

The words Chris spoke were hesitant. Though his eyes were open, Chris held doubt about the state of Jacie’s mind. He drank when Chris held water to his lips, but the few words he mumbled carried no sense. Chris thought he called for his mother, but the hum of his voice was too low to clearly hear above the cackling flame. 

Chris ate the stew that Joe had left in his bowl and talked around his mouthful of bread. Eventually, he lapsed into silence and took to watching the fire. Beside him, Jacie murmured restlessly, shivering in his soaked clothes. Chris laid a hand over his face. Burning hotter than before yet his teeth were chattering as though winter had come. 

With great reluctance, Chris left him by the fire. He first rooted through his own things for a clean shirt then moved onto Joe’s, who seemed to own little more than the shirt on his back and the one he had lent. Hesitantly, Chris moved back to Jacie’s chest and, in the dim light, saw the nightgown he had slept in that first peaceful month. It was plain and thin, but it would keep him warm enough without pushing the fever higher. 

When he lifted it, darkness slipped out of it, so smooth on his fingers that he could not catch it before it settled on the ground. Blindly, he fumbled through the shadows and grabbed when he found it. He thought, at first, that it was silk, but when he brought it closer to his eyes, he recognised it. Jacie’s hair bound with leather, just as he remembered it. Jacie had kept his hair. 

Chris brought it to his nose and breathed, clutching it between his fingers. He had cut it off, sliced his knife clean through, and Jacie had gathered it and kept it. He put it back into the chest, placing it between pages in the book, and closed the chest. He returned to Jacie. 

"Come now. Sit up." 

Chris knelt in the damp grass and pulled Jacie by the arms until he was upright. He looked at Chris with blank eyes, and a hot hand settled on Chris’s neck. Chris eased the shirt up, careful of Jacie’s ears, then tossed it aside. The solid weight of Jacie’s body against his was comforting. Reaching for the cloth, he wet it again and bathed him. 

"Cold," Jacie murmured. His lips moved against Chris’s ear, fluttering like the wings of a bird, and his heated skin prickled with a chill, but Chris merely shushed him and kept washing. Uncontrollably, Jacie shook. "Mother, mother. It’s cold." 

"I am not your mother," Chris said. He ran the cloth under Jacie’s arms, collecting the dew of sweat from the fine hair. The hand on his neck pressed into him, as if trying to grab his voice. Gently, Chris moved it to his shoulder and washed Jacie’s throat and face. His head rolled as if barely attached. He still wore the pendent, cradled in the dip of his throat. 

Jacie smiled fondly and put his fingers in Chris’s hair. "My husband." 

"No," Chris said, "I am not." 

"Oh, yes." His voice held a touch of whimsy. He leaned his head against Chris’s shoulder. His breath came hot and fast, and he moaned lowly, slumping forward. Startled, Chris dropped the cloth and took his full weight, lacing his arms under Jacie’s and hauling him upward. 

Jacie’s body seemed twisted in one unending shiver, and the dirty cloth of his breeches still clung to his long legs. Chris unlaced the front of them then laid him down to pull them from his narrow hips. In the shimmer of the moonlight, Chris could not help but follow the trail of dark hair. The skin, he remembered, had been smooth, save for the tickling of curls. 

His memory was cut by Jacie’s sudden shrieking and the lurch of Jacie’s body against him. He was talking rapidly, as if he could not spit the words out quickly enough, but Chris could not understand them, they came so fast. But the issue, he realised, was with him, and his hands where they were, and the slow revelation of Jacie’s flesh. 

"I will not harm you," Chris said, gripping Jacie’s head in his hands. His eyes were frantic, drained of colour, of anything but hysteria. His fingers were scratching at Chris’s arms to be freed. Chris caught his hand and pressed his mouth to it, willing him to be calm. Softly, he repeated, "I will not harm you," and kissed his hand again. 

"Chris," Jacie said. There was a flicker of recognition. 

"Aye." 

"I did not mean to be so ugly," Jacie said, and for a moment, his eyes held colour again before it faded, and he lolled, gone again. It took all his strength to pry his lips from Jacie’s hand. A quiet settling in his soul, Chris undressed him fully then pulled the nightgown over his naked body. Chris touched his hand to the rise of his hip; it still fit in the indent of his bones. 

Night melted into morning, and Joe did not return. Chris stayed awake though sleep pulled at his eyes. He ate, though he could not taste it. When the sun lifted high in the sky, he cleaned Jacie’s feet. The balm was smooth on his fingers, and he rubbed it into the sores. The fever had Jacie completely, and he did not wake. 

Chris sang to him when the words in him dried. Melodies he remembered from his mother’s mouth as a child, lullabies he had heard Jacie sing to himself as he moved. It did not come easily to him. There were moments when the wetness clogged his throat and he could not continue. In those instants of silence, Chris merely sat aside him and listened to him breathe. 

As evening settled, Joe rode up. His face was cut across the brow and marred with dirt. Chris accepted the canteen from him and poured a cup. He held it to Jacie’s mouth and made him drink. They had nearly been out of water by the time Joe returned. 

Joe mixed more balm, guided by the light of the fire, and Chris kept watch. Quiet held Jacie’s tongue, but his fever still raged, melting off his skin. Chris kept his face and neck wet with a soothing cloth. His breath came shallow. There were times Chris held his hand over Jacie’s heart, fearful it had stopped. 

"You should sleep," Chris said as Joe changed the poultice. The night was eerily still. Chris thought he could feel the spirits of the dead moving all around them. He only hoped Jacie could find some anchor to stay in the world. "I can stay awake and watch over him." 

"You bleed exhaustion," Joe said, spreading the balm onto the strip of cloth he held then pressing it to Jacie’s feet. Quickly, he wrapped it, then moved onto the other one. His fingers were slick with fluid. "Rest, Chris. I had plenty, after I knocked my head on that rock." 

"That does not count," Chris replied shortly. 

"It does. If I sleep, there is a chance I will not wake either. Sleep, Kilpatrick, lest I have to force you." Joe turned to him. The blood from his brow had been cleaned, but under his skin, a dark shadow spread. "If his state should change, I will wake you." 

"I have done him wrong, and I have not apologised," Chris said. His body ached with fatigue, but his legs would not bend to let him rest. Instead, he paced across the grass, his boots sitting aside the fire. "Tell me, Joe, how to fix what I have done." 

"He knows that you are sorry, and if he does not, you will tell him when he wakes." 

"I am not tired," Chris muttered. 

"To sleep, Kilpatrick. Now," Joe added. 

Chris held his tongue and replaced it with a sharp nod. He pulled blankets from the caravan to the fire, setting it up where he could see them. Joe shook his head, but let a small smile slip past his lips. Chris tried to keep his eyes from sleep, but they were heavy. Fitful sleep settled upon him, filled with nightmares and other ghoulish thoughts. 

He woke once to the sound of Joe telling fairytales, and then again when it was light. This time, he saw Joe bent over Jacie’s thin body, a book in his hand. A bible, Chris knew. Joe carried it everywhere he travelled, though Chris rarely saw it. Under his breath, Joe was murmuring in a foreign tongue, a hand on Jacie’s brow and thumbing over his skin. 

_Death rites_ , Chris thought. Joe was preparing him for death. 

"Do not do that," Chris said. 

"The fever has not lifted. It has, if anything, grown worse." Joe looked back at him. "This is a precaution, Chris." 

"You think he will die," Chris said. His heart felt heavy in his chest. If he could, he would grab it and pull it free as an offering to a man who deserved it more than he did. Instead, he folded his hand over it and forced it to calm. "Joe, tell me. You think he will die." 

"I am no god, Chris. I cannot make such claims." 

Chris bowed his head. His head swam, and the world tilted. He thought it was raining, but it was merely his eyes. He caught the shower with his hands and accepted Joe’s arm when he gathered Chris with it. _Some man,_ Chris thought, wiping at his cheeks. Some man he was, who had not even apologised for destroying the life of another. Who had not even felt he ought to, until then.


	16. Chapter 16

On the fourth morning, Chris had thought they would bury him. The days before had been steady, but the night had been rough. The fever had elevated further, and his heart had faded to a mere whisper. They had sat with him, bathing him, tending to his feet, and had bid their farewells and offered him to the stars for safekeeping. 

When Chris woke, he found he was mistaken. Jacie sat at the fire, a blanket around his shoulders, sipping at broth from a bowl. Joe held it to his lips. From where he sat, Chris could see his face was split into a smile. Chris was fearful this was a dream. He was convinced, until Jacie looked at him, and his eyes were blue. 

"You are awake," Chris said, as if either of them had missed it. _Fool_ , he thought, _relief has made you stupid._ But he was relieved. He let it flow over him like river water. "Hello." 

"Hello," Jacie replied. His skin was pale on his face, and his cheeks seemed hollow, but there was life in his eyes where it had not been before. The blue was as deep and lovely as Chris remembered. His eyes were swimming with merriment. "I will be all right, Chris." 

Chris looked to Joe, who nodded his agreement. Chris sat with them and ate, though his belly turned, and he was not sure the food would stay where it was put. His hands shook with his alleviation, his heart as light as clouds. He swallowed his jubilation, to deep places where it could not be seen, but he could feel it as though it was a second skin. 

As the day passed, he kept a watchful eye on Jacie. He was tired and rested more than he had before, unable to stay upright for too long, and when he was awake, he could not walk. Joe sat with him and helped him with his letters as Jacie sat next him, leaning into his body, the weight lifted from his world-weary feet. 

The next day passed much the same, though Chris felt more settled on his bones and calmer in his soul. Jacie ate more broth and attempted a piece of bread, which he could not stomach. Joe kept Jacie’s feet poulticed and clean, and though it hurt him, Jacie took the pain for the healing that it brought. They read together, and Chris watched them from across the fire. 

At midday, Joe took out his parchment and ink. He wrote his own name in a careful script, both his full one and the nickname he went by, then scrawled Chris’s own collection of names. He paused with the quill in the ink then quirked his head in Jacie’s direction. 

"Say your name for me," Joe said. 

He lifted a brow but smiled. "Jacie." 

"Slower." 

"Jay. Cee." 

Joe furrowed his brow then looked at Chris. "Tell me how to spell that." 

"I have never heard such a name. It is not one our people commonly use," Chris replied. He had not thought of it until then, but the name was strange. If Joe did not know it, it was not English, and if Chris could not recognise it, the origins lay elsewhere from Ireland. 

"Another mystery." Joe stroked his beard thoughtfully. "And you have no other name?" 

"No," Jacie said. "That is what my mother called me. I was called nothing by anyone else in my family. My father," Jacie looked down at his hands and wrung them together, "he called me a monster, or ugly, but never by a name. Perhaps, it is not mine." 

"Or perhaps, we are too dense." Joe lifted his quill from the ink jar then scratched two letters across the paper. Chris smirked despite himself, which pulled a deep laugh from Joe’s mouth. "Aye. JC. Short for a real name, I would bet, and two of them no less." 

"We commoners and our few names," Chris murmured. 

"Aye." Joe laughed again. He threw an arm over JC’s narrow shoulders and squeezed him. JC smiled up at him, eyes bright with the sky, and Joe grinned in return. "Now, come. A man must know how to sign his own name. I will show you how. Two letters is easy." 

Chris watched them as the day went on, distracted by their laughter. Relief made them giddy, of this he was sure, but each peal pierced at him like a sword. Selfishly, he wished it was he who caused it, and was angry that it was not.


	17. Chapter 17

The land, as he saw it, seemed more beautiful than ever before when they travelled through it. The roads were bumpy, the weather miserable, but the greens of the grass, and the vast, ending blueness of the sky, they inspired hope in him. JC felt tired all the time, which Joe promised would pass with improving health, but he felt brittle. 

And his feet. They ached. He wanted to walk about, to dance by the fire, but standing on them buckled his knees. Excruciating, in a way he was only truly conscious of when weight settled on them. Mostly, they were dully sore, a nagging pain in the back of his eyes. This world battered him every chance it saw. There were mornings when he woke, convinced he had no place in it, but there were even more when he woke and thought, _I will survive this._

Days passed quickly. Each brought something better than the last, which was from where he drew his strength. He remembered his name when it was written, and could sign Chris and Joe’s, too. And he read a simple string of words, part of a song that Chris knew and he did not, with only the slightest trouble. There was goodness hiding in his misery, and he used it to keep afloat in his life. Otherwise, the melancholy would take him again. That, he did not wish. 

They lost Joe one evening, as they settled outside a small village. He had promised to return with supper, but had not come. Chris seemed to know where he was and cursed him. He saved a colourful line for his own empty belly. When Joe returned, late into the night, he was singing loudly and merry. He danced with Chris, who tore the food from his hands and split the portions. Steaming hot meat and potatoes with fresh bread. JC’s belly rumbled happily. 

Joe seemed drunk on mead, though he swore he had none, but his merriment seemed endless. He spoke as though he was drunk. "My own folly lies with my addiction to women, I fear. I have starved my friends, all for the sake of a lady." 

"That was no lady," Chris muttered. 

"I would rather have a lady who enjoyed pleasure than one who did not," Joe replied, waving away Chris’s words. "Those who claim they do not desire it, lie. And those who claim they do are worthy of having more. Or would you disagree, Kilpatrick?" 

Chris held his tongue, though his eyes sparked with words his mouth did not dare to say. JC wanted to hear more about Joe’s adventures but did not ask, and Joe talked about the food instead, how his woman had cooked it for him, exchanged for a job well done. 

Later, when Joe had stumbled off to sleep, JC asked, "why does he not marry?" 

"Joe loves too much. He fears he will miss the true love of his life if he slows for an instant. I do not agree with him, but he will not be thwarted. He is good to them, better than their husbands would likely be, but still," Chris said quietly. 

"Does he have many children?" 

"Three that he knows of. Two you have met already, but there is another girl. Not many, considering." His shoulder shrugged. Chris kept his eyes on the fire, steady and unblinking. They disappeared into the shadows on his face, but JC could almost imagine what he was thinking. There were times his face spoke louder than his mouth. 

"They are like you." 

"Aye," Chris said. His back arched further, and his chin settled upon his knees. JC watched him unabashedly, waiting for him to continue, which he always did. "And he does not think, for a moment, what it will mean to them, when they are old enough to realise they are not welcome in this world." 

"He loves them." 

"Unendingly, but the love of a father has not the power to change the minds of men, however hard he wishes he could. But this is his life, and he lives it as he wishes. I will not deny him that, knowing what he gave up to get it." Chris dusted a hand over his knees. "I am off to bed. If I may help?" 

JC dipped his head. He stayed still as Chris lifted him, careful of his feet, and brought him to the caravan. Inside, Joe snored loudly, tucked against the side, nearly swallowed by pillows. For a moment, Chris did not put him down, and it was not until JC looked at his eyes that he moved. JC removed his shirt and settled, lifting the blankets to his naked shoulders. Behind him, he could feel the heat of Chris’s body. 

They travelled again the next day. JC sat in the back of the caravan, watching the world bump past. He rubbed at his feet, the ache suddenly replaced by a constant itching. _Healing_ , he thought, and that made him happy. He hated that they had to carry him, had to watch him. He felt he should apologise, for causing so much trouble, but he had tried, only to be quieted. 

Days later, they stopped near a twisting river, deep in the heart of a forest. Animals scurried through the trees, and birds chirped pleasantly in the distance. It was magical. His mother had told him stories about woods such as these, where the wildflowers acted as beds for lovely princesses and princes who rode about battling dragons. 

Chris lifted him from the caravan then set him down. 

"Your feet, if you will," Joe said, holding out his hand. JC gave him his heel, leaning back into the welcome arms of the grass. Chris sat at the water’s edge, filling the canteens. His hair stuck to the back of his neck, wild and black like night. The silver in his ear gleamed, catching the sun. JC looked back at Joe when his foot was squeezed and flushed, but Joe merely grinned at him and removed the bandages. 

"How do they look?" 

"Good. Healing well. We will get you some boots," Joe said. It seemed to be the hundredth time he had uttered such a promise, but he was determined. JC worried Joe would steal them, but Chris assured him that he would not, though he would not give his word. 

JC read aloud to Joe as he brushed the horses. When he stumbled, Joe gently corrected him. He said that JC was a quick study, but JC did not think so. He had looked at his mother’s book; the words she used were too full of letters for him to understand. It stung his soul to know he was so slow, and a part of him was unsure if he wished to read it at all. It could not forgive anything to know, if that was even the secret the book held. He was still too much a woman to be a true man, and too much a man to be what he truly wished. _Trapped_ , he thought, _between two worlds and somehow nowhere at all._

"Is the water cool?" Joe asked. 

"Aye," Chris replied. His shirt was soaked from the handfuls he had spilled over himself. Spring was upon them with a fury, ready to change into summer. The sun beat down from high in the heavens and coated them all with sweat. 

JC looked up as Joe streaked across the grass, jumping feet first into the river. In a heartbeat, Chris was drenched to the bone, his hair in spirals over his face. Joe was unclothed in the water, splashing about merrily as Chris shouted at him for drenching his breeches. Behind his hand, JC smiled and tried to keep his mind on his letters. 

"It is too warm a day," Joe said as he swam. His thighs were pale in the water, lifting out each time he kicked. They were big and strong, and JC watched them move with a grace that surprised him. JC was wary of the water, but the heat pulled at him and dizzied his mind. 

When he looked again, Chris had slipped into the water, his breeches and shirt in a heap on the long grass. They were still arguing, but with the merriment of friends who did held no anger toward each other. They tugged on each other’s beards, and JC rubbed at his own chin. It felt prickly against his fingertips. 

They splashed about, and JC hesitated for just a moment before he took off his shirt and breeches. Quickly, he stood and winced. He thought he had tried too much, but the pain never flared too bright, and the water was only three steps away. The walk he took caused only the dullest of aches. He settled fast into the sand and let the cool water soothe his feet. 

"Come in," Chris said. 

"I cannot swim," JC replied. He felt Joe’s eyes on his skin but ignored them. They had never told Chris what happened that one day of weakness, though it lay an unspoken memory between them, a tie that forged some strange tie of brotherhood between them. JC looked away from Joe regardless. It was not a thought he wished to dwell on. 

Chris stood suddenly, a hand lifting to his brow. JC felt his eyes pull to between Chris’s legs, where his manhood hung, different from his own. Shorter, thicker, nestled in a forest of hair black as pitch. A twist of heat curled itself around JC’s body, and he blushed like a maiden. He kept his eyes to the water, grateful he was waist deep in it. 

"And I, without my sword," Joe said. "I suppose I must greet them." 

"They would come at the worst of times," Chris muttered. When JC looked up, he was swimming again, the line of his back white like salt under the surface of the water. He crooked his head further and saw a group of men waiting aside the river, dressing in purple tunics. 

Joe lifted himself from the water, his skin gleaming wet. Again, JC looked between his legs before he could stop himself. What looked so horrible on his body looked so enticing on Joe and Chris. He flushed again, his ears burning at the tips. It was not proper to have such thoughts, but they had locked themselves in his brain. 

Joe walked to them, his skin bare. Chris chuckled, and JC looked over to him. His eyes glittered with mischievous. "Shameless," Chris said, and JC nodded, a smile rising to his own lips. Chris laughed again and let his body be lifted to the surface, held there by invisible hands. 

"My father wishes to see me," Joe said. He was still naked. JC hid his eyes behind his hand. 

"We will stay here," Chris replied, and Joe nodded shortly. He grabbed his breeches and pulled them up his thick legs, and sighed once before following the men into the forest. JC looked to Chris, who drew his own breath of air. "His father supports him but not the people he has chosen to befriend." 

"You," JC said. 

"And you. People are not nearly as logical as you would want them to be," Chris replied. 

"No," JC agreed. They were not. 

In the clearing between water and forest, Chris coaxed the fire into flame. He wore only his breeches. JC had looked at him again as he had left the river, the staff of flesh between his legs. Under the water, JC had touched himself, to will away the heat that pooled there. It was worse, now that he was dry and in his clothing again; it would not soften. There was a stickiness on his skin that itched. 

"Have you met his father?" 

"Aye. He cares little for me," Chris said, nudging the blaze. It roared at him, sparks of light bursting in his direction, but he merely forced the stick deeper. His thighs bulged with the weight they held, his breeches drawn tight across the muscles. 

JC shifted uncomfortably. The back of his neck prickled with cold. 

"How did you come to know him?" 

"Joe?" 

"Yes." 

Chris smiled, his shadowy eyes grabbing the fire and holding it inside. "If you had known me then, you would have understood how I appeared to him. A wild animal, it seemed. My hair was knotted, longer than it is now, and I wore silver, around my neck, and through my ears, and spiralled around my wrists. I was nothing like the men he had seen before." 

It was a sentiment echoed in JC’s own head, though he said nothing. 

"I found him outside a pub. This young thing, too long for his britches, too rich to blend. Oh, but the women loved him, even then. Their husbands loved him far less," Chris said. He laughed lowly in his throat. "I saved him from men who would have cut his balls for his crimes." 

"And he has been with you ever since?" 

"Or I with him." Chris smiled fondly. "He thought I would lead him on adventures. I did not, but he stayed with me anyway." 

"He is a good man." 

"There is none better," Chris agreed, "save you." 

His eyes roamed in the settling darkness, deep as night. JC caught them and nodded his thanks. They held that moment between then until Chris turned away. His shoulders glistened with sweat. JC thought of drinking from them, of putting his mouth on Chris’s heated skin; his body shivered its betrayal. The flesh between his legs ached. 

The night was heavy with damp heat, held in a silence that seemed to swallow even the suggestion of sound. When Chris made supper, JC ate until his belly was full then gave the rest of his bowl to Chris, who finished it. He still felt weak, but his food stayed where he put it, which relieved him greatly. 

"Your feet are well?" 

"Better." JC wrapped the cloth around his feet, the balm slick against his flesh. It hurt less to have them bound. "It will be a good day when I can walk without pain." 

"Aye," Chris agreed. There was sadness to his voice that JC understood, though he said nothing about it with words. Quietly, Chris walked to the water and crouched, dipping the bowls in and washing them. The expanse of his back was broad; the palm of JC’s hand was drawn to it. 

"Please know that I am truly sorry." 

JC looked up to see Chris’s eyes on him. If his own eyes captured the sky during day then Chris’s protected the sky at night. There would never be a sight so breathtakingly beautiful as the image of Chris held against the star-speckled backdrop of the earth as it slept. 

"For what?" JC asked when he could inspire the words to leave his hay-dry mouth. 

"Your hair," Chris said. The wind lifted his voice and tried to steal it, but JC’s ears were selfish and grabbed it, though it was faint. Chris spoke louder, as if he knew he was in danger of being thieved. "And for hurting you. Your body, but more, your heart. I know you thought me to be some great man and that I claimed to be just that. I did not mean to react as I did." 

"I suppose I understood, after a time." 

"But it still does not change what I did to you. What I keep doing to you." 

Words tangled his throat. JC coughed to clear them but still said nothing. 

"I made you feel as though you were somehow wrong. I did to you what has been done to me my entire life and what your father did to you. I cannot express how truly regretful I am that I was not a better man. I promise that I will try to be." 

"You take too much blame for things you cannot control," JC said. 

"I only take blame that is mine to bear." 

Chris lifted his head to the heavens, his hair brushing his naked shoulders. Though JC could not see his eyes, he would guess they were as closed as his soul was open. Quietly, JC stood in the cool grass and walked slowly across it, the blades tickling his ankles. A dance throbbed in his bones, but his feet could take very little more. He ignored it as he ignored the heat surging through his bones. Tasting the pain his mouth, he collapsed at Chris’s side and knelt. When Chris looked at him it was if nothing else existed in the world. 

"I forgive you," JC said. 

Hesitantly, he touched gentle fingers to Chris’s face. Inside, he shook like a tree caught in a storm, but outside, he felt strong like iron. Brave, like Orion. He thumbed at Chris’s lower lip. Dipping inside, he slid across his teeth then fitted his mouth against that same place. Chris’s lips were just as sweet, tasting like sun-warmed honey. 

JC leaned into him when Chris’s hands settled, curled around JC’s hips. He felt anchored by Chris’s hold, like he had found his place, so he kissed him deeper, slicking his tongue into Chris’s open mouth. Sweeter than honey, if such a thing was possible. JC drank of it like a man driven mad by thirst, his fingers fanned on Chris’s neck and holding them there. 

When Chris pulled back, JC followed, and the kiss spiralled further into time. They were consumed by twin hungers. JC could feel Chris’s heat against him, thick and hard in his breeches. Desperately, JC kissed at his mouth, his cheeks, his brow, his chin. All places where his lips could touch, they did. Chris’s eyes were hot under his mouth, the lids soft like lamb’s wool, and they tasted like salt. _Like tears,_ JC thought, and sat back on his haunches. 

"That cannot happen again," Chris said. 

JC knew, if he removed his fingers, that he would lose his hold, so he kept them there on a throat that pulsed rapidly. His body throbbed with the same cresting feeling, torn between pleasure and pain, and when Chris pulled away, the pleasure vanished entirely. JC’s hands settled heavy in his lap as if turned to stone. When Chris turned away, JC let him.


	18. Chapter 18

At midday, the same men in the purple tunics rode up on horseback. Chris went to speak with them, only to come back with a sour face. He drowned the fire then hitched the horses to the caravan. Alistair chomped on his hand, but for once, Chris ignored it. JC gathered the bowls they had eaten from and limped to put them away. With the eyes of the men on his back, he refused to ask for help though his feet burned. 

"Where are we going?" JC asked quietly when they moved. 

"We have been invited, it seems, by Joe’s father to stay in his home. It would be a great injustice, I am told, if we were to refuse," Chris said. The reins were twisted tightly around his knuckles; his face held a grim expression. "They will treat you badly." 

"I am used to it," JC said. 

"Aye. I suppose you are." 

"I did not mean -" 

"I know," Chris said. 

The morning had been marred with awkward silences and clumsy words. As they both knew, they had kissed as men the night before; they seemed changed by it. Not, as JC had hoped, for the better, but not, as JC had feared, for the worse either. But it was undeniably different, in a way that was both intriguing and terrifying. 

The house was a castle. JC could not keep the awe from his eyes as they approached it; he had known that Joe was above them in class, that he was English and by that right privileged, but he had not grasped it wholly until then. A castle, made of dark stone, and surrounded by a noisy town. Instead of stopping, however, they rode straight through it to the gates. 

When they stopped, JC climbed down to the ground with his breath in his throat. Usually, Chris or Joe took him by the waist and lifted him, but he understood that Chris could not do it here. He landed heavily and put his fist to his mouth to stop the noise that rumbled. His eyes prickled with pain, and he walked on his toes to gather his things, wary of thieves. 

"Treat them as you would me," Chris muttered to his horse, patting its head. Alistair neighed and, as they walked away, bit the stable hand who approached him. The man howled; under his breath, Chris chuckled. "Aye. That damned beast is good for something after all." 

There were servants that greeted them at the door, two young males. JC had hoped to see Joe, but there was merely a collection of faces he did not recognise. They looked at him then glanced away; he could hear the controlled heaves of Chris’s breath. In his dirty clothes and wrapped feet, he felt out of place. _Perhaps_ , he thought, _this is what Chris meant_. 

One of the servants took his chest, and JC let it go into his arms. Chris argued with the one who tried to help him, and JC wondered if he should have insisted upon the same right, but his feet throbbed with pain. If he did not sit soon, he would drop. The ease of the extra weight was most welcome. As they followed the two servant boys up a flight of steep stone stairs, Chris touched a finger to his wrist. JC lifted his eyes to look at him. 

"You look ill," Chris murmured. 

"I do not feel well," JC replied. He had been told sternly to tell them if he felt the pull of disease again. Still, he felt wrong complaining, but they had both been angry with him in the way that made him feel loved. "The stone is difficult to walk on." 

"It is not much further," Chris said. 

To appease him, JC nodded, but his legs buckled with each step. By the time they arrived, sweat had beaded over his brow, dripping salt into his eyes. Quickly, he sat upon the nearest chair, curling his legs under his body. The servant boys glanced at him but held their tongues, leaving quickly. Chris walked to him and knelt. 

"Let me see," he said. 

JC unfolded a leg and offered Chris his foot. 

"There is blood soaked through the bandage," Chris said, smoothing his fingers over the arch of it. He unwrapped the injured foot quickly and propped it up on the seat of another chair. There was a bowl of water by the window, and he brought it over. 

JC watched him and said nothing as Chris washed. The cloth moved between each of his toes and over his heel, gathering the tears his skin shed. One of the servants entered the room and set folded clothing on the bed; the other hovered in the doorway. JC looked at him until Chris followed the path his eyes indicated. 

"What is it?" Chris asked, his voice vexed with irritation. 

"The Duke wishes you to join him for supper. And that you bathe and wear the clothes he has provided with his permission," the boy said. His eyes flickered from the floor to Chris then back again as if settled with terror. _Perhaps_ , JC thought wryly, _the boy has never seen a traveller before and is struck dumb._

"And if we refuse?" 

"It would be a most grievous insult to his graciousness," the boy replied. 

"Oh, would it?" Chris set JC’s foot onto the chair. A hand was left wrapped around his ankle as he continued to speak to them. "Would it be less heinous if I was to carve out your tongue for speaking to me like I am a dog?" 

"Chris," JC said. He lifted his hand and smiled behind it. The boy’s face twisted with horror, and he looked to his companion for guidance, who scurried to hide behind a curtain. Their eyes were wide, glimmering with wetness. They were young. "Say you do not mean it." 

His eyes danced with mute merriment. "And if I do?" 

"They are terrified," JC murmured. "Say you do not mean it. They are only boys." 

" _You_ are only a boy." 

"Chris. Please. Terrorize the men at court, if you must, but not them." 

"I jest, I assure you." The boys looked no less frightened, though the one came out from behind the curtain and shuffled to his friend by the door. JC smiled at them weakly, to ease their hearts. "Tell the Duke we will gladly eat with him this evening, if he does not mind traveller scoundrels at his table." The boys did not move. "I play with you. I mean no harm." 

"They say your kind are wild like animals," the clothes-bearer said. 

Chris crooked an eyebrow. "Do we look wild?" 

"You act wild." 

"I suppose, then, that I have no future as a court jester?" 

They shook their heads, and Chris stood as if to chase them from the room. Their footsteps echoed through the hall as they ran. Chris laughed when they were gone, and JC could not stop his own smile from splitting his face. Sitting back at his feet, Chris washed the rest of the blood from his flesh then wrapped them with strips of cloth he tore from the bed sheets. 

When JC looked up, he noticed that Joe stood in the doorway, dressed in what JC thought were women’s clothing, a red tunic and matching breeches, a leather belt twisted around his waist. His hair had been cut and the gold had been pulled from his ears. JC barely recognised him. 

"Kilpatrick. I hear you have been causing my father’s servants to soil their breeches." 

Chris laughed. "You should have known better, Joe, than to invite me to dinner." 

"My wild and roguish friends, who have stolen the Duke’s third born son and forced him to roam the wilds of Ireland, instead of settling on his rightful soil in Ulster or that beautiful England, where he would happily serve the church and give his life to Almighty God. Amen." 

"Aye." Chris wiped his hands on his breeches. "Your father still adores me then?" 

"With passion that knows no bounds." 

"And I love him thrice as much," Chris replied. 

"I will tell him that his true love is a tinker named Chris. He will be glad to know." 

"Your mother should enjoy the news." 

"Undeniably. Most likely, she will be relieved to be rid of him." 

"And you will have such a beautiful mother in her place." 

"You mean an ugly one." 

"Joe, hold your tongue. You will make me blush." 

Laughing, Joe walked across the room, his boots clicking across the stone floor. He put a hand on JC’s foot and examined it, a frown creasing his brow as his laughter faded. Without speaking, he sat upon the bed and scratched at his knee with clean hands. 

Chris said, "A roll with the pigs should bring you back." 

"I feel like a man out of body," Joe said. He tugged at his sleeves then looked up, his expression that of a man who knew he erred. "No offense meant to you, JC." 

"I took none," JC assured him. 

Through the halls, the cry of Joe’s name rang, shouted by a shrill woman. Joe rubbed at his temples then stood, adjusting his dagger at his side. She yelled again for him, and he hollered at her to hold her tongue lest they all go deaf from the shriek of it. He bid them farewell then walked from the room, his boots clacking the path. 

The servants returned and led them to a room with a tub of water. A woman came in carrying a kettle and filled it further, though it was still frigid when JC slid in. He scrubbed at himself until he was pink, enjoying the bath but complaining to Chris to keep him content. The clothes they gave him were too complicated for him to understand, and he pulled at them until, with a huff of frustration, Chris tied him into the coat. 

"Men dress like this?" 

"English dress like this, even when they have crossed to greater lands," Chris said. He smelled of the oil they had put into the water to make them smell sweet and not, as Chris claimed, liked uncivilised heathens. The scent was pleasant enough, and JC liked the lingering aroma of it. As if he knew, Chris pinched his nose. 

"I do not like this situation," Chris said. Irritated, he yanked at his collar. 

"You look handsome," JC said. 

"No. Aye. My thanks," Chris said haltingly, as if he had to hunt for the words. "But that is not what I meant. Men are hanged for acting above their station, for _dressing_ above their station. I cannot help but think this is some elaborate ploy to lure me to my death." 

"It is my hope that Joe would not let such a thing happen." 

"No. He would not. But that father of his. That _English_ father." 

"Was your father English?" He asked it before he thought to stop himself. He pinched his lips together and formed an apology in his head, but Chris merely stopped fidgeting. Instead, he sat upon the bed and rubbed a hand over his face. JC thought to place his own on Chris’s neck and soothe his nerves, but if he touched Chris again, he would kiss him. 

They were brought to a large room where, at the front of it, a long table was set with plates. Joe stood at the head, speaking to two men. They had his face, but as though they were wearing masks to match. _Brothers_ , JC thought. Joe was the most handsome of the three. 

"Stay in the shadows," Chris murmured, "talk to no one. Do not amuse them any more than our mere presence does." He yanked at his sleeves, his lips pinched in a tight line. "If Joe should ever doubt my loyalty, he need only look to this night." 

JC sat upon a small table, rubbing his feet together like crickets did. They had made him wear boots, but they were far too small and agony on his injured feet. He watched the people, the ladies in their finest dresses, the men in their finest britches. There was a minstrel who sang and plucked a harp with his deft fingers; the people laughed and danced together. The dances were simple ones he could learn by sight. If his feet could, he would join them. 

When supper was served, they were seated next to Joe. JC sat two seats away, with Chris, then Joe, beside him. JC was less likely to murder the man sitting next to him, Joe had told him quietly. When it turned out to be a woman, Joe still did not let him move. It was like teasing a hungry beast with meat; no good would come of Chris sitting next to English. 

"Drink this. It will help ease the pain," Chris said, pushing a cup at his hand. 

_Mead_ , JC thought, and held it to his lips. It tasted sweet like honey but had a bitterness about it that choked his throat. He drank slowly. When dinner was served, he used it to wash down the meat. There were foods he did not recognise, but the taste was exquisite. He spoke to the girl next to him, who stared at him with a blatant eye. Her father looked over her shoulder and watched him just as carefully. 

A heaviness settled on him. Warmth spread across his cheeks and down to his shoulders. He drank and stayed quiet only when Chris nudged him with an elbow and reminded him. Joe talked with a loud tongue and told his father of their adventures and defended them when his father showed displeasure. His brothers scowled, as if wanting to chastise him, but Joe spoke proudly of his life and paid them no mind. 

When the food had been eaten, the minstrel started his music again. The dancing went on and on, the entire room acting as if drunk on happiness. JC smiled. They most likely were. His own body hummed with the mead. The room spun spirals around his head, and he sat watching it, singing with the minstrel, quiet enough that he could not be heard. 

Joe spoke to him, but JC could muster no words in reply, only a wide grin and a mouthful of laughter. Tugging on a curl, Joe bid him to sleep and made Chris go with him. 

"Chris has suffered enough," Joe said, "and you, JC, are drunk." 

Chris put a hand under JC’s elbow and urged him to stand. 

The pain in his feet had somehow vanished. 

JC danced over the stone, the soles of his boots loud in the empty pathway. He hummed to himself and imagined he was in the great hall, the minstrel playing his merry tune. He preferred the firelight, the slide of grass between his toes, but he doubted Chris would take him outside. Chris seemed sure the English would try to steal his life from him. 

"Calm yourself. Your feet still feel the hurt even if your brain does not," Chris muttered, stealing an arm around JC’s waist and stilling him. They walked together, and JC leaned on him. Chris smelled of the oil, his hair still wet from the bath. JC hooked his fingers in it and pulled it from Chris’s neck. There, he stroked the bared flesh with a finger. "And stop that." 

"You wish to kiss me," JC murmured. 

Chris put a hand on JC’s head and pushed him away. It was hard enough to knock him into the wall, and JC clutched at the cool stone. The world spun in circles, as fast as if he had tumbled down a hill, and he felt his legs buckle. Chris slid under his arm and hoisted him. 

In the room, JC collapsed upon the bed as Chris lit the lamps. He lay there until he had his breath, but when he tried to move, he felt himself dizzy again. Weary, he settled his head and rolled upon his back. Chris came and fought with his boots. They were far too small for his feet, and Chris said so, pulling at them. There was the pain, shoots of it, along the edges of JC’s eyes. 

"It would be better to cut them off," JC said. 

"And here I thought the world would end before you complained," Chris said. JC lifted his head and watched as Chris unwrapped the bloodied cloth from his feet. Again, he washed them clean, and again, he wrapped them anew. Fitful with discomfort, JC pulled at the jacket he wore until Chris undid the buttons for him and got him out of it. 

JC lifted his hips and pushed at his breeches, but they were tightly fastened, and he truly did not understand why the English insisted on such complicated clothing. Chris’s hands pulled his own away then stripped him bare. The air was chill. JC felt his skin prickle. Suddenly, he felt morose and sighed into his pillow. "I did not mean it, about my feet." 

"I know." 

JC watched Chris as he stood and walked across the room to a smaller one. Crooking his head, JC saw a small bed, too short for even Chris to comfortably sleep upon. Chris undressed quickly. The naked line of his back was twisted tight with muscle. JC’s own body was thin and wiry, but Chris and Joe were built like true men, powerful in the strength their limbs carried. 

"You could sleep here, in this bed," JC said. 

"No," Chris said. He skidded his breeches down his legs then toed off his boots to get the rest off the cloth free. He was careful, JC noted, to hide himself from JC’s view. The curve of Chris’s palm protected his manhood, but JC remembered it. It seemed burned into his memory. 

"That bed is far too short." 

"Perhaps. But you forget, JC, that we are guests in this house, and the doors do not lock." Chris sat upon the bed and pulled a blanket over his naked body. The round of his shoulder was left bare, exposed to the cool night air. "Anyway, you are not welcome in my bed, and I am not welcome in yours. You forget, JC, that you are not my wife." 

"I know exactly who I am," JC said. 

It was a half truth, at best; at worst, the most blatant lie.


	19. Chapter 19

Chris woke to a sliver of light across his eyes. His back ached as though a man had taken a fist to it. Scrubbing a hand across his face, he dressed quickly and pulled on his boots. In the main room, JC slept soundly. His body sprawled shamelessly, golden in the new day sun. Chris lifted the blankets from the floor and draped them over his prone form. 

Chris left the room without waking him. He asked a servant to lead him to Joe’s quarters, and he went in without announcing himself. Joe lay with a woman next to him, his face buried in her hair, and he coughed to wake them. Startled, Joe sprung from sleep and looked around wildly before catching Chris’s smirk. 

"Still hiding from your father, Lord Joseph?" 

Joe roused the woman, covering her shoulders with the blanket. He sent her to the next room to dress. They did not exchange kisses. It had been an oversight to let her stay the night, Chris knew. Or Joe had merely been too drunk to realise he had bedded a woman. 

"Are you to mass this morning?" Chris asked quickly. 

"Is it Sunday?" 

"Aye." 

Joe tugged on his breeches. "Then I suppose I am." 

"Am I permitted to join you, or is my kind not to step foot in your church?" 

The look Joe gave him cut deep, but Chris merely straightened his shoulders. 

"While you are here, you are to be treated as I would be. That is the agreement we reached, my father and I." Joe slipped on his boots then stood, walking to the water bowl and splashing his face. "If you wish to join me, Chris, then I will not stop you. I merely thought your faith did not generally cross mine." 

So Chris went to mass with Joe’s family. He had thought to go to reconciliation, but the Church of Ireland did not offer it. Regardless, Chris sat with them, even though his belly curled to do it, and prayed in his own tongue. Latin was a language he had never understood, but not because he was too dull to learn it. It was a language he associated with the clergymen who had raised him, and that was a time he wished he could forget. They had tried to beat the language into him, and he had never let them. 

When the bells rang, they filed from the church. Joe led him away before they could be greeted, and Chris went with him. There were few tortures in this world to which he would submit himself, and Joe’s family was decidedly absent from that list. To them, he was lower than the animals they kept on their lands. 

"Tell me, Kilpatrick, what weights your soul?" Joe said as they entered the kitchen. He gathered bread and eggs onto a large plate and encouraged Chris to do the same. They made a third for JC, who would eat a third of what they offered, but they did not want their own plates to appear greedy. "You turned to my God and risked heresy." 

"Your god," Chris repeated. 

"Aye, you Catholic heathen, _mine_ ," Joe said and fondly tugged on his beard. "But tell me." 

"You are mistaken, Lord Joseph. I am as light in the heart as if I walked in the clouds." 

Joe led him up a twisted flight of narrow stairs until they emerged in a large sitting room. They ducked behind a curtain and entered another narrow passage until, finally, they came into the room in which JC slept. He was naked again; the covers lay pooled on the floor. 

"A very beautiful man, is he not?" 

"I would know nothing of another man’s beauty," Chris replied. 

"Pretty enough to be a woman, yet so obviously not," Joe continued. Joe crossed his arms over his chest as he regarded JC, eyes brazen as they looked. When Joe turned that same look on Chris, Chris glanced away. He put his plate on the table and sat down to eat his breakfast. Joe pulled a chair beside him, mouth already full of food. "My father wonders where we got him. I said we met when he saved me from a wild beast that tried to take my leg." 

" _Him_?" 

Joe laughed and ripped into his bread with his teeth. "Aye. Those wild tinkers can do things no others can, did you not know? Even the slightest of them can pry an animal from a man with his bare hands. It is the Celtic blood, I am told. It keeps them savage." 

"You Englishmen are stupid," Chris said. 

Joe scooped egg into his mouth with his fingers then bit off another morsel of bread. "You Irishmen make it too easy. But it should be worth a laugh or two down the road." Joe wiped a hand over his mouth. "Was he much trouble?" 

"Is he ever not?" Chris gnashed at the bread with his teeth. It was clear where Joe wished the conversation to go, but Chris had neither the will nor the energy to let it. "I will think twice before allowing him near mead again." 

"Ah, but what is a man if he does not drink?" 

"A better one than most," Chris said. 

Joe chuckled. They ate in silence until JC woke. He stretched his arms over his head, his body long and lithe, and Chris watched him until his eyes felt burned. When Chris turned away, he was greeted by Joe’s coy smile, and he looked to the window instead, to the dark blue of the sky. The clouds were heavy with shadows and rain. 

"How do you fare, JC?" 

"Not well." JC fumbled for the blankets and pulled them around his shoulders. He stood and approached the table. Joe grabbed a chair then shoved a plate at him. JC paled but ate, his legs folded under him. There was no blood soaked through the bandages, but Chris could not trust appearances when it came to JC. That much he had learned. 

"How are your feet?" 

"They hurt." JC looked at him. The skin under his eyes were dark; the whites of them, red. A miserable looking man, if one had ever been seen. Chris turned back to his plate and lifted a piece of bread to his lips. "As you said they would." 

"Aye," Chris said. 

Joe picked up the conversation and ran with it, teasing JC about his drunkenness. The affectionate warmth that JC offered to Joe in return set Chris ill-at-ease. So it was just him with whom JC had trouble that morning. It should not have pierced him so deep. Still, Chris made quick excuses and left them to eat alone. 

Chris’s body felt marked. He had put the silver back into his ears, but it scarred deeper than that. The skin on his face, his lips, stretched in ways it had not pulled before. Joe had chided often to stop living as if he had the world to hide, but he did. Chris had from the moment of his unfortunate birth. 

Alistair had his teeth in the stable boy’s hair when he arrived, but the damned beast let go when Chris approached. Restlessly, Alistair kicked until Chris was able to dance around him and get him free. The stench of the city burned Chris’s nostrils. It seemed worse in the stables. 

If he was half a man, he would leave Joe and JC and go off on his own. Joe had been saddled with him far too long; JC had been wronged by him in more ways than he could count. _Always a burden_ , Chris thought, and urged Alistair into a gallop. 

Chris spent the day aside the calming roll of the river. Chris found the sleep he had missed in the soft cushion of the grass and only woke when Alistair nuzzled his face. Chris batted at his nose to be left alone, but the horse would not take a dismissal. 

"I could eat you," Chris said. It was a thin threat, one he had uttered a thousand times since he had stolen the beast from an English noble who had not treated Alistair well. An act of selflessness, perhaps. He had not needed another horse and had travelled with two until the first keeled over and died five days later. 

Chris had not needed a friend, though he rescued Joe from his suffocating life. And he had not needed a wife, though he took JC away from his father’s hate. If they were mistakes then they were ones he tried to wear proudly. But three in a lifetime did not excuse much, and he still erred daily, in much less forgiving ways. 

When the sun dipped and rain drizzled from the clouds, he saddled up Alistair and rode back. The whores were out, he noticed idly, swarms of them, a plague like locusts. The women he had been with had been prostitutes, paid for by Joe as gifts, until he magically stopped and gave Chris the silver he wore in his ears instead. 

Chris had money in his pouch. He rode onward without stopping. 

The gatekeeper let Chris pass with a nod of greeting. A withered old man, but he did his duty to the world. In the stable, Chris tied Alistair next to Joseph the Third. The skittish horse laid its long neck over Alistair’s back and snuffled against his coat. Chris fed them both a handful of oats and combed them until his own body grew weary with exhaustion. 

The wind whistled the tune of a woman wailing. Chris kept his hand on the stone as he walked up the narrow staircase as if he thought he could be blown down. The darkness crept in and stole his sight. Chris found his way only by the slide of his palm over rock. 

In the room, a single lamp was lit on the table. The cry of the wind was balanced by the steady breath JC exhaled with each lift of his chest. He lay buried in blankets. The tangle of his hair was the one part of him that Chris could make out against the white of the bedclothes. When Chris tipped his head, he realised he could see the shadows cling to the rise of JC’s body. They outlined where JC lay as if he was not covered at all. 

Chris had lied to Joe. He knew beauty when he saw it. His eyes were not blind, and even one without sight could understand the beauty that JC possessed. JC’s soul remained untarnished despite the life he had lived. JC knew fear and sadness and, now, anger, but he trusted like a man never scourged. The naiveté he possessed was refreshing, though Chris knew he had to be careful not to mistake it for stupidity. Uneducated, without a doubt, but JC possessed a keen mind that learned more and more with each day. 

There was a hazard in that power. Other than Joe, Chris had never met a man who did not understand his place in the world, but unlike Joe, JC had no place. He could not exist as the woman he once was, but he had yet to become the man he would be. Chris recognised this, and his brain accepted it, yet, still, the place where JC stayed was awkward. _Dangerous_ , Chris thought, and touched a lock of JC’s hair with a single finger. 

No woman’s hair had ever felt as fine. 

No woman’s hair ever would.


	20. Chapter 20

They stayed a week until Chris could bear it no longer. His head was simmering in madness, and JC was no company. He slept too much, the last of his illness raging in his body, and when JC was awake, he spent more time with Joe than he did with Chris himself. _As he should_ , Chris reminded himself. He had no claim over JC or his time. Chris still felt slighted. 

Joe embraced Chris’s willingness to leave and told his father that they meant to depart that very day. The blame fell squarely on Chris’s shoulders, and he bore it. If he did not, they would never leave. Joe loved his father, despite it all, and harboured enough guilt to stay. 

Joe took JC aside to speak with him. Chris’s ears itched to listen, but Joe spoke too low. Joe kept his hand on JC’s shoulder, his face close to JC’s bright smile, and did not move away until JC nodded. Without a word to them, he picked up his belongings and walked briskly to the stables. When they joined him, Chris had already brought the horses outside and yelled at the stable boy for trying to help. 

"Stop for a moment," Joe said. 

Chris paused but kept his hands twisted in the horse’s reins. Alistair bit at his hair; Joseph the Third chittered nervously. JC smiled at him, and Chris returned it. The relief welled fast in Chris, and he was embarrassed of it, so he turned away quickly. But Chris had offered, and accepted, a truce. That calmed his nerves more than he wished to admit. 

"Here he is," Joe said. A white horse followed him, smaller than most, but a handsome creature nonetheless. JC approached him cautiously, hands out, and the horse moved to him. "Aye. Let him get to know you. He is old enough to know better, so do not be afraid." 

Joe took Joseph the Third from Chris’s hold and scrubbed a hand over his belly. The stallion neighed happily and pranced in place. 

"A horse?" Chris asked when no explanation was forthcoming. 

"Aye," Joe said. He tossed the saddle over the horse’s back and secured it tightly. Chris looked to the caravan, and Joe paused. "It will be easier if we are all on horseback till winter’s end. My father will keep it until we return." 

Chris nodded. There was logic to his thinking. The original reason for travelling as they had was gone. Forcing his mind elsewhere, Chris prepared to leave. He tied his pack and blankets to the saddle. The unrest in him made him anxious; this town had Chris by the throat. 

Joe’s father stood to the side and watched them. He embraced his son warmly and pressed a leather satchel into Joe’s hands. _Money_ , Chris thought. The coins would last months, preserved out of stubbornness, but the need for them was undeniable. They were family, he and Joe and now, JC. Magic provided only half a living and occasional thievery the other. Chris was sure the money was meant to prevent the latter. 

JC got himself onto his mount with no help. The horse waited patiently for his leg to hook over then stayed still until he was on. He smiled brightly and rubbed its neck. _Too small to be sitting on such a beast_ , Chris thought. It was easy to forget the body JC possessed was longer than his own. It was easy to forget much about JC. 

He settled onto Alistair’s back and urged the creature into motion. If he made the first step, Joe would follow. JC, as Chris well knew, had no choice but to do the same. He was past the gate before he looked back. Joe, his face holding the blankness of a statue, and JC, his face masked with a mild terror, but both following. 

"Stop!" Joe said suddenly, and Chris gritted his teeth. They had been so close. "Boots." 

Joe flung himself from the horse. He settled heavy into the mud. JC’s foot was already lifted from the horse when Joe grabbed it. His fingers spread and measured the length of it. His hand was huge on JC’s narrow ankle. Chris’s own looked small against it. His fingers twitched with memory. Chris held his arm close to his body. Impatience clung to his mouth. 

Joe returned with five of his father’s men and five boots in his arms. The smile JC gave him pulled a boisterous laugh from Joe’s mouth. He made a grand production of it. Each boot, he slid onto JC’s foot, and each boot, he pulled off. Two were tossed back immediately, the men pulling them on and returning to work. The other three waited, indulging the son of their master, forced grins painted on their faces. Chris watched impassively, coercing his brain elsewhere. 

At last, they had picked a boot, and Joe took the other from the man’s foot. The leather was worn, but they covered the flesh that JC himself could not protect. There would be more cities, more hazards. It was safer, then, that he have them. Chris knew this. His impatience knocked at his head; the anxiety rose like a storm. 

"We can go," Joe announced. "We have boots." 

JC laughed. The sound soothed Chris’s panic, and he turned to them, noting their eyes. Chris smiled woodenly and nodded his head. When the horse moved under him, Chris felt nothing but the most immense of relief. Never had Chris felt such affection for Alistair. _Never will again_ , Chris thought wryly, and patted the beast’s neck. 

They rode in amiable comfort. Joe sang a merry tale of mead and virgins; JC caught the words quickly and sang with him. The silence in Chris’s chest was heavy. Only once did Alistair catch sight of something interesting and wander from the path. They stayed in that place until morning, sleeping in the long grass. The night was warm. Summer had finally settled. 

They travelled again the next day. Joe talked at length about naming JC’s horse. It had a name already, which Joe would not divulge, but needed a new one. A noble and glorious one, Joe said. JC looked at him with all seriousness and agreed. It kept their idle minds busy till dusk, though no name was christened. The ride was long. Between them, they would find it. 

Joe ate then let sleep take him, wrapped to his eyes in a blanket Kelly had made for him after their first night together, years before the babe was born. A bribe to return, Chris had said at the time, but he had not meant it. It had travelled with them ever since. Chris himself had felt its warmth. Joe had wrapped him in it when the influenza had nearly snatched his life some years back. 

Chris slept on a rock, which he had not noticed until he awoke abruptly. His back ached where it had pressed into his skin. Joe had been swallowed by shadows; the horses slept by the tree, pressed close together. The grass where JC had laid upon hours earlier was flattened but empty. Chris put his palm over it. It was cold. JC had not slept there for quite some time. 

Chris’s heart thudded hard against his chest as if to remind him it was there. He walked with a careful slowness. The air was clean, and Chris breathed it in though the hollows of his nose. _The horse_ , Chris thought with sudden clarity, _the horse is missing._

JC had left once. They had never mentioned it, but when he had seen JC with Joe, he knew that JC had not intended to come back, that he had been caught and returned. JC was a brave man to have consented to it. Chris would have vanished like a spirit if anyone had done to him what he had done to JC. 

The taste of guilt was bitter in his mouth. Chris swallowed it. 

Chris found JC on the outside of the hill, dancing around a tree. A song rolled in JC’s throat, and it tickled at Chris’s ears. JC was wearing the dress that Joe had said was a gift. The horse stayed in place and nuzzled JC’s smile when he approached. Even in the moonlight, Chris could see the long lines of JC’s fingers. 

Chris had expected anger to surge in him, but instead he felt a deep sense of melancholy invade his bones. JC looked truly, honestly happy. His face wore the same blissful expression it had in that breath of time between his father and the end of their marriage. 

Chris had left his boots with Joe, so when he stepped and snapped a twig, he gasped with the rush of abrupt pain. JC stopped as if he had been struck across the face and moved behind the horse. _Hiding_ , Chris thought dumbly. _He is hiding from me._

The night waited for them. There was a long pause of nothing where Chris was tempted to fade back into the dark and deny it come dawn. His heart raged against skin. It would climb out of him if Chris let it. He did not want to be the man that stripped happiness from JC’s eyes. 

"Have you named the horse?" Chris asked, grateful for the dark. His face flamed. 

"Nearly," JC said. He kept his hand on the horse’s rump but rounded it cautiously. The bandages had been unwrapped. JC’s feet looked as though they had never suffered at all. The week of forced rest had been good for him. Chris was, for once, glad they had stopped. 

Chris could not keep his gaze from the neckline of the bodice. It was a secret anxiety Chris wanted to hide. When he caught JC’s glance, Chris knew he had not. Quickly, he dipped his head. He held out a hand as if throwing an apology then brought the fist to his racing heart. Finally, with guilty eyes, Chris looked up. Already, JC had the bodice unlaced, the flimsy gown underneath pushed from his shoulders. Chris’s fingers reached it before Chris realised his feet had moved. 

"My discomfort should not affect your actions," Chris said. His hand felt heavy on JC’s neck; the skin underneath it was damp with sweat. JC had danced for a longer time than Chris had seen him. His skin tasted of salt. Chris knew that without having to press his tongue to it. 

"My actions should not cause you discomfort," JC replied. His words were careful. 

"I have done more than that to you," Chris said. The truth tasted as bitter as guilt had. 

JC opened his mouth then closed it. Silently, JC nodded, but there were still words in him. Chris dragged his thumb over JC’s lip as if to pull them out from where they hid. Chris’s hand moved over a dangerous battleground. Chris knew it, and still, he allowed it to map its path. The air Chris breathed hurt his lungs. It came too fast, too hard. 

"Say what you must," Chris said. He pulled his arm away; the skin prickled like a burn. It felt raw and overheated. There was pain somewhere, but he could not settle it. It crawled across his flesh. He spoke to keep his mind away from it. "Anything. Say it to me." 

JC had pulled the bodice from his body, leaving his torso naked. A shiver twitched JC’s body. _He must be cold_ , Chris thought dumbly. The illness was still in him, and Chris knew it waited. Chris lifted his own shirt from his body and held it out. The cloth flapped listlessly in the wind. 

"Take it," Chris said when JC made no move, but he remained motionless. Chris’s arm began to ache, but he would not draw it back until JC took the shirt from him. The night’s air was warm on him. The hair rose on Chris’s skin as if he, too, was naked. 

JC stepped forward. The cloth of his skirt wrapped around his long legs, and his pale ankles flashed into sight. When Chris lifted his head, the shirt remained twined in his hand. JC still had not taken it, yet he stood so close that Chris could smell the heady musk of his sweat. 

"You do not wish me to be a girl," JC said quietly. 

_His eyes_ , Chris thought, and wet his own dry lips with a damp tongue. It felt as though that dark gaze had him by the throat, not as if it meant to strangle but as if it meant to kiss. 

Gently, JC lifted his fingers and slid them over Chris’s naked shoulder. 

"But neither do you wish me to be a man." 

_His eyes_ , Chris thought again as if he was seeing them for the very first time. Chris felt held by them, bound in rope and unable to escape. Trapped there, he could only stare at JC. 

"Yet." 

"Yet," Chris repeated. Terror spiked through him. _Not a_ _man_ , Chris thought, but of whom he spoke, he did not know. If JC did not move away, Chris would not be responsible. Temptation had never looked so sweet. Chris’s body would go freely if his soul would not. 

"You watch me, and your eyes have not changed. I have waited, but they still look as they did when I was your wife. Still, Chris, despite your hate for me." 

"It is not hate," Chris said. It was as honest an admission as any he could offer. 

"Then is it love?" 

"It could not be," Chris said. 

"I am no different," JC said. There was a mute hysteria in his voice. JC’s fingers curled on Chris’s skin. JC clung to him as his words came in rapid succession. "I could be anything you wished me to be, and I would never complain. You know I would not." His hands lifted to Chris’s face and touched his brow. "I could be your wife. The world would never know." 

"I would know," Chris said. He put his hands on JC’s wrists. He could barely grab them. They seemed like they would crack at the pressure. _Frail like eggshells_ , Chris thought. "I would know, JC. I could not let you live like that. We cannot change the truth." 

"If I could, I would cut it off." JC leaned into him. His fingers dug into the meaty flesh of Chris’s shoulders. The point of his chin was sharp when it touched Chris’s neck, his lips so close Chris could feel JC’s breath. "I do not want it. Take it from me, I beg of you. Cut it off." 

"No," Chris whispered and crushed him in the circle of his arms. The surprise was in how easily JC went into them. His waist was so narrow, his body thin and fragile like a twig. JC’s sorrow was so deep that Chris could feel it piercing at his own skin like tiny daggers. 

JC’s legs shook against Chris’s knees, so Chris sat them down together. The earth welcomed them, cradled in the space between two roots from the weeping tree above them. They twined so tightly that Chris could not tell whose heart it was that beat so loudly in his ears. 

Chris’s fingers slicked across JC’s forehead and caught the dew. They were quiet now save for their thoughts. Chris knew without looking that JC rested against him with closed eyes just as he knew that consciousness clung to him. In the sky, the stars hung bright in their heaven.


	21. Chapter 21

In the new dawn of morning, JC woke to Chris. Sleep had him still; his eyelids fluttered like the wings of birds. But they were there, lying together under the expanse of a tree. The sun was warm on his skin; the heat of Chris’s own even warmer. His face felt tight with dried tears, and he still wore the dress. 

It hurt him to move himself away, to kneel in the soft grass and fold the garment. Chris had pulled at him when he left, his arms tightening suddenly. JC had taken Chris’s hand and put it on his own naked belly. When the dress had been put away, he sat in the sun and ignored the heat between his legs. _Dreams_ , he thought morosely. He was plagued by dreams. 

He dressed with careful hands. They felt shaky, like they could grip neither rock nor feather. The shirt Chris had offered he draped over Chris’s body. He led his horse back to the others and tied him up. When Joe looked up, JC glanced to the sky and said nothing. 

They rode for days. There was a destination. JC could tell the erratic travelling patterns from the deliberate ones after nearly two months. But where they headed, he did not know and did not ask. It made no difference to him. He did not know the difference between north or south, east or west, just that they mapped a path. There were times he felt intensely stupid. 

Chris watched him with dark eyes. It was like being kissed a thousand times, though they had scarcely touched since that night. Longer still since he tasted Chris’s mouth. As they rode, he thought about the feel of Chris’s lips. 

JC’s horse, which once had a name and would have one again, was kind to him. He was not skittish, like Joseph the Third, nor was he surly, like Alistair. His name was in JC’s head, though he kept it even from himself. When it came out, JC would recognise it. He was patient. 

His body, though, it ached with travel. His bones were tired, but more than that, the flesh between his legs held a heavy pain to it. It grew worse with each day, and JC wondered if he should tell. He had kept quiet about his feet, and it had nearly stolen his life. 

JC focussed on his letters to keep his mind from the ache, though it did not stop the swelling. When he slept, it was fitful; when he did not, the numbness overwhelmed his pain. Reading was still eluding him. Joe said it would take months, months of not knowing. JC had to remind himself that he had spent seventeen years brainless. Another one would barely register. 

JC gathered his wits and went to speak with Joe. He lay napping under a tree, and JC sat next to him. A touch to the wrist woke him with a start. 

"You frightened me," Joe said, smiling. 

JC grinned in return though his belly turned anxiously. He plucked at the grass until Joe had pushed himself up, leaning his back against the trunk of the tree. JC waited longer, clutching at his words, already prickling with embarrassment, until Joe asked, 

"What troubles you?" 

JC looked at him. He wondered if his face was as red as it felt. "I have pain." 

"Your feet?" 

"No," JC said. Quickly, he dropped his gaze. He thought he could be brave and meet Joe’s eyes, but it suddenly seemed unlikely. "They itch, but you told me that it is good they do." 

"Aye. They are healing," Joe replied. 

JC nodded. He kept his eyes to his hands. 

"Then where?" 

JC stretched his neck and looked away. Heat crawled deeper into his cheeks. JC rubbed them over his knees as he pulled his legs closer to his body until he was small. Invisible, JC used to think. As a child, he curled as tightly as he could until he was swallowed in his mother’s skirt. 

"Your cock?" Joe asked finally. 

JC nodded, though he still hid his face in his knees. His ears flamed. 

"Does it burn when you piss?" Startled, JC looked up to find Joe grinning at him. JC shook his head, and Joe clasped him on the shoulder. "Then thank your stars, JC. Any other pain is easily banished. Unless you have been bedding lovers without my knowledge." 

JC’s skin sparked again, and he ducked his head as Joe laughed. The laughter was warm and friendly. A steady hand rubbed over JC’s back, and though his instinct was to flee, JC leaned into the touch and let Joe have his fun. Joe ruffled his fingers through JC’s hair. 

"Tell me about the pain," Joe said. 

JC pinched his lips. 

"Come now. Are we not friends? Tell me." 

"It is not too great, but it is always there. And it." JC chewed his lip until Joe poked at him. "It is always." He paused again, and Joe tugged a curl. "It is always hard. The skin feels hot with fever." He thought to mention it flared to life in Chris’s presence, but he did not. "It is not wholly unpleasant, but I feel-" 

"Frustrated?" 

JC nodded. 

"Aye, I would think so," Joe said. He draped a heavy arm over JC’s shoulders. "I forget sometimes that you are not what you seem. This pain is a sign of manhood, nothing more. It is what allows me to enter a woman’s body. Otherwise, I am soft and useless to please her." 

"Oh," JC said. Kelly had explained certain things to him, but he had learned it all as a woman. He knew that his parts would get wet if it was done correctly; that he might feel a burst of heat in his groin if it overtook him. "Then there is nothing I can do?" 

Joe smiled. "There is much you can do. You can find a lover." 

"No," JC said. "I doubt that I could." 

"Someday," Joe said softly. When JC looked up at him, he grinned. "Or you can take matters into your own hand." Joe curled his fingers and moved them through the air. JC stared at them then at Joe’s bright face. "Aye. I promise, should you do that, you will find relief." 

"It will not harm me?" 

Joe smiled. "No, it will not harm you. You may hear that it does, but those are lies told to frighten young boys. If they were not, I would be a cripple," Joe said, and when JC’s eyes went wide, he laughed again. "You should be glad I have no shame, JC." 

"Oh, I am," JC said. He felt nearly giddy with relief. "Can I do it when I please?" 

Joe’s eyes crinkled with merriment. "Not in polite company but in private. Should you sneak off to the woods, I will barely notice. Chris himself will not return till morning. He has gone to find a rabbit, and he will lose his way, for he can barely tell the water from the land." 

"Should we not go get him?" 

"Tomorrow, we will take the horses and find him. No sooner. These journeys of his keep him humble." 

JC accepted the words with a nod. They napped side by side until evening, when JC finally rose to cook them a stew. They were low on food again, but they had some vegetables and a hunk of stale bread. Joe talked to him like he was a man, keeping nothing back, but then, Joe had when he thought JC was a girl, too. Joe simply spoke as he wished. 

Joe wrapped himself in his blanket and wished him luck. The smile sang in his voice. JC still waited until Joe snored until he stood. The night was warm and damp. He petted the horses and bid them good night. He dared not stray too far, but he found a private space, veiled by trees and near the water. JC cupped a hand and dipped it in to drink. The chill tickled down his throat, and he lay down there, combing his fingers through the river. 

JC let himself think of Chris. Of his hands, small and strong with skin dry like paper. His eyes, golden in the light but shadowy in the darkness. And his expressive mouth, his desperate lips. JC touched his fingers to his own, wetting them with drops of river water. He stuck out his tongue to lick at them. 

JC shrugged from his shirt then pressed his cheek to the grass. He kept his belly flat against the plush ground. Memories of Chris came to him, of his kindness and his beauty. There were darker memories too, but JC believed Chris was honestly sorry, so he pushed them away. They did no good now. There was no reason to dwell. 

When JC had gathered his courage, he pushed the breeches from his legs. The grass felt soft against his skin. He lay there unmoving, the ache of his manhood a constant thorn. He hated it. He hated that it drove him to this sort of painful longing for Chris. Anything to stop the control it had over him, he would do it, even touch it in ways he did not think it deserved. 

The skin on it was hot. It moved loosely against his palm when he slid his hand under his belly. And hard, like rock it seemed, but smoother with a strange softness. Eyes closed, JC pushed his face into the earth and touched himself. His other hand dug deep into the grass, furrowing into the dirt. Heat spread across his shoulders. Urgently, his hips pushed at the ground. 

_Chris_ , he thought, and wondered if this was how it would have felt. If he had bedded JC like he intended. If he had not discovered. If there had not been anything to discover. If the ugliness had not been something he had looked at for years and never thought abnormal. 

JC needed only to tighten his fist. Startled, fire streaked through him, and he choked into the grass, mouth open and eyes wide. Wetness spread over his hand, and he yanked it away from himself quickly. He rolled onto his back and held his hand palm up away from him. It cooled quickly on his fingers, and he wondered, dumbly, if he had done more harm than good. 

Heart racing, JC looked at the stars. His fingertips were tacky. JC pressed them together to feel the skin stick then snap apart. His manhood had softened slightly, but it was still long and leaking on his belly. _Terrible thing_ , JC thought, but he was terrified to touch it. 

JC put his hand in the water and let it wash clean. His skin felt hot. Sweat blossomed under his arms. JC could smell the salt of it. Still, his manhood ached between his legs, but less like pain, too much like pleasure. He thought of Chris and stiffened fully. _Too much_ , he thought, _too much_ , but let his hand drift down again. 

It had not been enough.


	22. Chapter 22

"Aye. There it is," Joe said. 

There was a small house by the water, built of grey stone. Smoke lifted from the chimney, and JC could smell the scent of fresh meat in the air. Sheep grazed nearby, cattle even further in the distance. He could hear the low keening of the beasts. The world seemed frozen, or as if they were on the edge of it. 

They rode down the path to it, the clack of the horse’s hoofs loud on the rock. A man stepped out of the door, dressed only in breeches. His smile was bright even from a distance. With a roar of greeting, Joe threw himself to the ground and hugged the man, pulling his feet from the ground. 

"You are late," the man said and laughed. He thumped at Joe’s shoulders until Joe put him down. His eyes were the colour of pale moss, so big that JC wondered how much more of the world he could see than JC himself. "Chris, it is good to see you again." 

"Lance," Chris said. He bowed his head. 

"And this is JC," Joe said. 

"A pleasure to meet you," Lance said. 

"And you," JC replied. He slipped off the horse, feet landing hard on the stone. JC braced for pain that did not come. He was still unused to the protection boots offered. His horse butted his head affectionately against his shoulder, so JC lifted his hands to pat him. 

"Has this place yet driven you mad?" Joe asked. His arm was still thrown around Lance, draped over his broad shoulders. They seemed intimately comfortable with each other. JC liked Lance immediately for no other reason than the fact Joe held him with open affection. "No. I see you have company." 

JC looked up. There was a boy, scarcely older than JC himself if not at all younger, crouched on the hill. He watched them with openly suspicious eyes, yet when Lance waved him down, he came. His legs were naked and marked with dirt from boot to thigh. The plaid fabric of his kilt wrapped around his small waist. A narrow strip of fabric flung over his shoulder. 

"This is Justin," Lance said. "He tends my lands." 

"I bet," Joe murmured, and laughed when Lance poked him with an elbow. 

"Will you please take the horses?" 

Justin nodded. His lips remained pinched as he moved towards Joseph the Third, who skittered away from him, then to Alistair, who snapped his teeth. Joe laughed and was held with a dark gaze, which only spurred him further, merriment dancing in his eyes. JC smiled behind his own hand. Beside him, Chris shifted on his feet. 

"I recognise those two, but who is this beautiful beast?" Lance asked, lifting a hand to stroke it over the horse’s white mane. Justin grabbed Alistair and Joseph the Third by the reins and led them to another male horse, which was happily grazing. Joe spoke first. 

"He does not -" 

The word tumbled from JC’s lips: "Fleur. His name is Fleur." 

"Fleur?" Lance repeated. 

JC nodded. He looked to Joe, who had bit his lip as his brow creased with laughter, so JC smiled at him to encourage the laughter to escape. As Joe chuckled, JC glanced then to Chris, who had his eyes on the sea where the waves rolled in with a dull roar. 

Lance ran his hand appreciatively across Fleur’s back. His eyes rested for a moment on JC’s face before he turned to Joe, murmuring as he petted Fleur, "handsome thing, is he not?" 

Joe laughed freely this time, his voice full and loud. "You would know more than I." 

"Indeed I would," Lance said. 

Justin came for Fleur and took him to the others. Lance invited them inside for supper. There was hot meat on the table. JC’s stomach rumbled. They sat and waited for Justin to return before eating. Joe and Lance talked at each other with the comfortable ease of old friends. When Lance asked about JC, Joe said they had merely stumbled upon him on their travels. _The real story_ , JC thought wryly, _is not one to be told in polite company._

Justin left as the night wore on. He seldom spoke and only to Lance, yet JC did not dislike him. Justin’s eyes held more in them than he showed. In that way, he reminded JC of Chris, who had scarcely talked at all. Chris had gotten lost trying to find a rabbit, like Joe said he would, and had been quiet ever since. _Lost in his head_ , JC thought, _as I am lost in it._

"I had not realised there would be three of you," Lance said. They were all slumped over, sleep pulling heavy on their eyes. Joe still spoke, but his voice had dipped into softness, his words slurred with exhaustion. "I offer my bed. Please rest there. I will sleep outside with my cattle. One of my heifers is set to deliver. It is easier for me." 

"And the Scotsman?" Joe asked. 

"The Scotsman prefers the stars," Lance replied. His smile glittered in the dull light. 

"Enjoy your stars," Joe said. The clap of his hand on Lance’s back startled JC, and he looked up. They were old friends, he realised, like Joe and Chris were old friends. There was something about that thought that tightened JC’s chest. He leaned into Joe’s touch when his fingers squeezed the meat of JC’s shoulder. "And to you, my friends, I bid you good night." 

There were two beds on either side of the stove, tucked into the wall. Joe climbed into the one, fully naked for his clothes were on the ground in a heartbeat. Already dropped into sleep, Joe pulled the covers over himself. Beside him in the darkness, JC heard Chris’s breath quicken. JC thought of offering to sleep elsewhere, but he liked the comfort of a bed. Chris, JC also knew, liked the illusion of protection a bed suggested. It was less likely that he would be robbed while he slept. 

JC climbed fully clothed into the bed before Chris could utter a word. The sweat that still clung to his shirt from the long ride had almost dried. Where it had not, the cloth felt cool. He pulled it off and waited. It often seemed a battle of wills these days between them. So much went unspoken. So much wanting was denied. They could share a bed here. JC felt safe. 

JC waited until he thought for sure Chris had left before he let go his breath. It was then that Chris came. His hand brushed JC’s cheek as if he could not see it was there, then pulled away quickly like he had been burned. Still, Chris slipped in beside him, bare above the waist, skin so hot that JC could feel it though they did not touch. 

Joe was already asleep. His snores came heavy and steady. Joe could sleep through a storm and never wake. If he pressed his ear to the stone wall, JC could hear the rush of the ocean into land. It all seemed impossibly loud, like the world was offering protection, like it would hide them if they wished it. 

JC felt a comfort in his body that he wished to share. His manhood felt less strange in his palm the more he touched it. Discovery quickened his blood in the same way Chris’s mouth on his had. Lying in bed with Chris, knowing he was there, the flesh stiffened between JC’s legs, thick with desire. If he had been braver, he would have asked Chris if his did the same around him. Instead, his mouth felt dry as if he knew not how to speak at all. 

JC shifted and rubbed his feet together. It relieved some of the itching. Between the wall and his body, he bent a leg and reached for his foot. His nails scraped over the skin, and it was all JC could do to hold the sigh in his throat. Sated, he rolled onto his back. Chris was so close that his breath spread over JC’s skin like dew. JC rolled his head to look at him. 

JC only had to think it before Chris put his mouth over his. Chris’s tongue swept in, fast and lethal like the strike of a snake, or so JC imagined from the stories he had heard about serpents. Chris’s hand fanned over his belly, smooth and hot on his bare skin. JC hoped it would go lower. It stayed a steady pressure on his skin. 

JC could taste the desperation in Chris’s mouth, the way it moved without breaking contact, the firmness of it as it licked at JC’s lips. He kept his ears open for Joe’s snores, but they came regularly, holding him deep in slumber. Still, when JC moaned, Chris folded a hand over his mouth. They stayed frozen like that for just a heartbeat before they kissed again. 

JC’s mother had told him stories about romance, but they had not sounded like this. The kiss had always been brief, life-changing but nothing that seemed to span eternity. She had never told him of the heat or the slick wetness or the desire that would flame through his blood. 

JC’s mind was elsewhere when he dropped his hand. JC had meant to touch himself, to fold his palm over the uncomfortable swelling in his own breeches, but he touched Chris instead. It was just the merest brush, but it was too much. Chris grabbed his wrist and held it. Tomorrow it would bruise. JC did not whimper only because Chris still held his lips with his own. 

"We must never do more than kiss," Chris whispered. His wet mouth spoke it so lowly that he had to hold it to JC’s ear to ensure he would hear it. Mute, JC nodded. His body wanted so much more, but the look in Chris’s eyes held such fear that JC ignored its need. 

"Believe me, I will never love you," Chris said. His fingers clutched at JC’s hair; his mouthed moved against JC’s ear. The whole of his body shivered. JC did not dare hold him. He knew he would be pushed away if he tried. "Tell me that you believe what I say to you." 

"I do," JC said. He opened his mouth to another kiss, and it tasted of salt. It held him to the bed. He kept his hands pressed against the mattress, his body still. He said again, "I do," and spoke it directly to Chris’s mouth as if it could find its way inside and ease all trouble.


	23. Chapter 23

Chris was not meant to stay in one place. He had wasted ten years, stuck in a church, never allowed to travel further than the courtyard or, if he was brave, the cemetery. The morbidity of it had fascinated him as a boy. The dead cared not whether he was bastard or tinker. Even Joe, who accepted the world with a shrug, had been mildly disturbed when Chris told him. _The dead stay where they are put_ , Chris had said, _the living roam_. 

This place seemed to hang on the edge of civilisation, so it comforted him. He slept more than his mind needed but enough that his body felt lighter. He helped with the animals, and built Lance a new table, and spent a week travelling up the coast before he doubled back. Time passed with a blur. It kept his mind busy. 

They kissed. It did not happen each day. There were moments in his life when he felt in control of his body, but JC’s eyes would catch the sun or his face would split with a smile, and Chris would be overcome once again. It was temptation, and he had accepted it. 

Joe kept himself busy trying to get their stallions to breed with Lance’s mares. Joseph the Third had sowed his seed and would, Joe hoped, do so again. Alistair was unpredictable, and Lance was wary of the fact Chris did not know his lineage since he was a stolen horse. It was only out of desperation that Lance consented this year to let Alistair try it. Fleur was a gelding. 

Joe left the two stallions to pasture with two mares, each fenced off from the other, in hopes they would have some instinct for it. It appeared neither of them did. 

"Joseph the Third has lost his confidence," Joe said. It was an excuse he used more often as the days passed. The horses still had not thought to mount the mares. Lance had even switched the females in hopes that it would work. Still, neither horse mated. "And he does not like that we watch him. Such things are private." 

Lance smiled. "Is that it?" He was stewing dinner over a fire. 

"He has sired enough colts for you, Bass. He knows where to put his cock," Joe said. 

Chris rolled his eyes and continued skinning potatoes with his knife. 

"He has the whole of summer to rediscover it. I remain unworried," Lance said. He stoked the fire further, luring the soup to a boil. His eyes drifted out to the sea. On the sand, JC rode along the water’s edge with Fleur. Practice, he had said. Chris suspected he was merely frustrated with his letters. "That one is strange." 

The blade of Chris’s knife skidded into his thumb. He put it between his lips and sucked. 

"Aye," Joe said. 

Lance looked over his shoulder. His eyes were green as moss. "How did you truly find him? He would not last a day alone in the world." 

"If you will excuse me," Chris muttered. The blood still seeped into his mouth. It tasted of sun-bathed silver. 

Chris offered no time for disagreement and walked briskly away. He had not thought it would remain a secret for the whole of their stay, though he had wished it, but if Joe was to tell Lance the truth, Chris did not want to hear it. The story opened deep wounds. 

He walked in the direction of the setting sun. It gleamed across the water. Eyes half closed, he crouched at the water’s edge and dipped his fingers in. The smell of salt settled heavy in his nose. Chris remained unused to it, yet he knew they would stay for many months more. He doubted it would ever pass his nostrils lightly. 

Chris sat there, cradled in a crevice between sand and rock, and waited. For what, he did not know. The stars, perhaps. His fascination with them was new. JC, for all that he did not know, could read the stars like a poet. To JC, they held stories of wonder and awe. To Chris, they were merely specks of silver in the dark night sky. Still he thought that, despite all he had been told differently. JC saw things he could not in them. 

When the call for dinner echoed, Chris paid it no mind. His belly was only half empty, and he had no need to face them, JC and Joe and Lance. The Scotsman, Justin, was as abrupt in his actions as Chris felt himself in his mind. The boy, for he was barely more than that, felt more at ease with the animals. Chris envied that. He himself felt comfortable nowhere. 

From where he lay, he could see JC at the edge of the sea. Chris watched as he led Fleur up the path to the small cottage. He was barefoot. Chris knew he had yet to develop a feel for boots. When he was gone, Chris turned his eyes to the ocean and watched the waves lap the earth. 

"You did not come for supper," Joe said, later. He slid down the hill of sand, balancing a bowl in his hand. Chris took it without word. "Have you no faith in me?" Joe asked. He settled heavy into the dirt. "I did not tell him, Kilpatrick. It is not my place." 

"He is your oldest friend," Chris said. 

"Aye. He is. So trust when I say I hold his secrets as dearly as I hold yours, _old friend_." 

Chris looked over to him. He could still see the boy Joe had been painted in the shadows on his face, before he knew responsibility, when Joe only understood freedom. Their life was hard; Chris still could not understand what allure he had that Joe’s father’s wealth and protection did not. _To turn from such love_ , Chris thought, and shook his head. 

"It should not shame you." Joe spoke lowly, his words carried on wind. 

Chris turned from him. "It does not." 

"JC should not shame you." 

His tongue felt thick. Chris said nothing. The sea looked angry. 

"He tries for you, Kilpatrick. You do not understand-" 

"I know him as well as you, Lord Joseph," Chris said quickly. 

His fingers itched to trace his lips, where he had kissed JC that very morning. Chris had only needed to watch JC draw water from the well, his eyes shimmering blue, to feel the violent jolt of temptation. He had stolen a kiss behind the house, quick, in fear that someone would see. 

"I do right by him. I am trying to undo the wrong I have caused." 

"Then also accept the good you have done." 

Chris wished that Joe would go. His heart was big and kind, but he did not see things as Chris did. Joe paid no more mind to his god than he did his own father; Joe understood nothing of what it meant to sin. The good Chris had done was momentary and fleeting; it would erase nothing from his soul. 

"Things are not as they seem, Chris." Joe squeezed his shoulder then stood, lifting his face to the sky. The width of his shoulders blocked the moon. "You belong here, Chris. I know that you think you are trapped, but here, in this very place, you could find comfort." 

"You speak in riddles," Chris said. 

Joe turned, his teeth uncovered by a grin. He swiped a hand over his breeches, brushing the sand from them. "A man said that very same thing to me once. Just accept, Kilpatrick, that I am wise beyond my years and, more so, that I am always right." 

"Your high opinion of yourself astounds me." 

Joe laughed, loud and full, and bowed his head. Still chuckling, Joe walked into the night, and the merriment of his voice sailed across the air. With his own smile, for he could not stop it from crossing his face, Chris watched him until he had vanished like magic.


	24. Chapter 24

Chris had woke to find squares of parchment nailed through the small cottage. On them, Joe’s prim script, each item spelled out in letters. He had barely returned from the field to empty himself when Joe pinned three blocks to him: Chris. Christopher. Kilpatrick. He did not remove them. 

He ate what was left of the oatmeal, scooping it with two crooked fingers from the bowl. Outside, the sun shone bright, and the day seemed warm. He sat where Lance stood cutting wood, bare above the waist. Rivulets of sweat poured down his broad back. On the other side of the cottage, in the middle of a grassy knoll, Joe sat with JC aside him. The frustration on JC’s face was plainly seen. The patience on Joe’s brow, just as clear. 

"Good morning," Lance said. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. 

Chris nodded at him, his fingers held between his teeth. He paused. Only when Lance resumed his chopping did Chris begin to eat again, slower, more proper. There had been a spoon on the table. He had not even thought to pick it up and use it. 

Chris knew very little about Lance, just that his life had been much like Joe’s, filled with wealth and privilege. Still, he lived in the most barren area of Ireland and had for as long as Chris had visited yearly with Joe. He had always lived alone. Joe had invited him, of course, to join them, but Lance had declined. Unlike them, Lance had land to tend and a house to care for. He did it all on the edge of the world. 

"Can I offer my help?" Chris asked, when his bowl was empty. 

"Please," Lance said. His smile seemed grateful. 

Chris picked up an axe and started hewing at the marks Lance had made in the wood. He kept his eyes narrowed. The wood was solid, and the cuts did not come easy. Chris did not even know what it was Lance intended to make. After a few heavy strokes, he removed his shirt, careful of the parchment. The sun beat down upon them. 

They were, Lance soon told him, making a bed, to be used for sitting and sleeping. If it rained and all of them forced inside, five men would not fit comfortably on two narrow beds. Lance, though he seemed it, was not good with his hands. Chris cut through most of his wood before Lance had finished half. 

They kept silence between them, but it was not wholly uncomfortable. Their only bridge seemed to be Joe, who was beloved by everyone but the intended suitors of the women he bedded. Still, Chris trusted Lance, which was more than he could say for most men he met. 

The Scotsman - _Justin_ \- approached, and Lance looked up. The look that passed between them was one Chris could not decipher, but Lance begged his pardon for a moment and left Chris with the chopping. In Lance’s absence, Chris finished splitting the wood and started, instead, to carve the dowels with his knife. 

He could see JC and Joe arguing, the bible in JC’s hand. The same one with which Joe had taught Chris to read. The months it took had stretched their friendship to its breaking point. Chris had been as stubborn and as impatient a student as JC seemed. Joe kept his face calm and nodded when the time called for it. Eventually, JC settled back to the grass. 

He looked up then and caught Chris’s stare. Startled, Chris turned back to his knife and winced as it scrapped across the cut he had given himself days earlier. When he lifted his gaze again, JC had turned back to his book. His lips moved slowly over the words as he stumbled. It was far too advanced for him. Chris knew Joe had given it to him merely to prove it was too much. He had done the same thing to Chris years before. 

When Lance returned, Chris had already started to assemble the pieces. Sweat dripped from under his arms, but it felt good to work. Lance circled him once then sat and watched. The glimmer of his eyes caught at the corner of Chris’s gaze. He had never seen eyes so green, yet they were still nothing compared to the pureness of blue found within JC. 

"What did the Scotsman want?" 

"Justin?" Lance looked over to Joe and JC. Chris followed his gaze but could not see whatever it was that had caught Lance’s attention. The Bible had been set down. Instead, JC was reading from a piece of parchment. "Nothing." 

"Nothing," Chris repeated. 

For nothing, Lance had been gone quite awhile, but Lance said no more of it, and Chris did not know him well enough to press. Instead, Chris turned his attention to the bed and chipped at the last of the holes until the dowel slid tightly in. Lance studied his actions; Chris was careful to explain what it was he did, so that Lance could learn from it. Joe had known very little about such things too, when they had first met. 

When the frame was finished, they carried it to the cottage and set it in the corner. Very little room was left inside, but Lance was right to worry about the rain. The weather could be unpredictable. Even the wild Scotsman would have to come inside at the height of an angry storm. 

It took them until sunset to stuff the canvas mattress with straw. Alistair wandered over and chewed affectionately on Chris’s hair. Chris pointed the idiot beast to the mare, but it paid the other horse no mind. Alistair merely helped himself to the filling, snorting when Lance rubbed over his belly. 

"You are much more forgiving than I," Chris muttered. 

Lance smiled and said, "aye." 

Chris doubted Lance would have been so kind to the horse if Joseph the Third had not finally rediscovered his cock and mounted two mares in the last three days. They had all gathered to watch the momentous occasion. Chris had stood in the back, his fingers softly touching JC as if he did not intend it. JC’s eyes had been wide. 

When the mattress was stuffed, they dragged it together to the cottage. JC had a pot of potatoes boiling over the fire. A pitcher of milk sat on the table, a plate of steaming meat next to it. If Chris could give this place nothing else, it was that he had never eaten better in his life. He pulled on his shirt and sat on the rickety chairs that Lance had made. 

They ate together, all five. Justin, though he still spoke rarely to any of them, had started to attend meals. Lance, Joe and Justin all prayed before they ate; JC bowed his head with them, hands clasped on the table, eyes closed. Only Chris kept silent, his leg thumping nervously under the table, as if he feared to be struck down.


	25. Chapter 25

Night had not settled soon enough. The day had fixed a deep restlessness in JC’s belly. The afternoon of reading had not gone well; JC could keep nothing in his head that was not a song. The letters still jumbled. Joe said it would come easier with each lesson, but JC wondered if he was not again being fed lies. They had cut the day’s lessons short, for JC’s temper had been even shorter. 

And Chris. JC could not understand him. There were days JC had begun to wish he would not look at JC like he did, his eyes dark and hungry. JC’s skin itched with need. More and more, he snuck to the rocks beyond the cliff, tucking his body between two of them and hiding. There, he would put his hand into his breeches and relieve some of the ache, but it never seemed to sate him. 

Often, when he was merely sitting about, scarcely even thinking of Chris’s handsome face, his breeches would tent, scarcely covered by his flimsy shirt. He needed Chris to touch it, his cock, and JC knew that Chris would not. Men, he was told, were unable to do such things. 

When night had fallen, JC slipped out of bed and grabbed his satchel. Chris turned onto his back but did not wake. Joe snored on the bed that Chris had made; Lance was quiet. JC could not see if Justin was between the wall and Lance, though he doubted it. 

Fleur neighed a greeting when JC approached. JC led him out of the fenced area, combing his fingers through Fleur’s snowy mane. JC understood, as much as he could, that Fleur had been unmanned and could not breed because of it. Sometimes, JC felt what he thought to be envy when he thought about it. 

The sand was cool and damp beneath his toes. They walked alongside the water, the only light, reflected from the moon. JC sang under his breath and smiled when Fleur nuzzled behind his ear. An old tree stuck out from the earth, broken save for a stump only hands taller than JC. Underneath it, JC felt guarded, protected. 

The song tightened its hold on his tongue, and the music came out louder. The roar of the waves took it and swallowed it, but the joy he felt freeing the words from his mouth lifted his heart. JC tied Fleur to the tree then crouched, opening his pack. He took out the dress with the finely embroidered bodice, the one Joe had bought for him from Danielle. Joe had said the blue matched JC’s eyes, but JC did not think his eyes could ever match the beauty of this fabric. 

The book tumbled from the dress into the sand. Again, JC wondered what was hidden in its yellowed pages. Songs, he liked to imagine, all the ones his mother had taught him to sing and ones that she had never had the time to pass on. Or stories, he wondered, about the world, and their people, and him. There was a single word on the first page; the letter it started with was the same that his name started with now. Nothing else about it made sense. 

He ran his fingers over the page then closed it. He put it on top of his other things, his veils and his nightgown, to keep the wind from stealing them. 

The dress sat there, folded neatly. Cautiously, JC lifted it as though it was a child. He held it against his body. Still taken by the song, he took one sleeve with his hand. His other arm gathered the dress close to his body. JC danced with it, like Joe had danced with him, like a man would a woman. The fabric curled around his ankles. 

As he moved over the sand with the dress, dancing, JC wondered if this is what it felt like to be close to a woman. He doubted he would ever truly know. JC knew he was a man. It was hard to deny; he had a cock between his legs that never slept. Yet, he still thought he was not very good at it. Manhood. Being a man. 

JC knew he did not have _those_ desires. The proper ones. The ones Chris wanted to have, the ones of which Joe had plenty. JC still remembered the whore, the roundness of her breasts, the thatch of hair between her legs. The longing he felt for that body still ached under his skin, but it had started to dull with time. JC hoped, in time, all of him would become numb. 

The snap of a twig caused him to look up. In the shadows was Justin. JC could scarcely see his face, but the pale length of his bare legs made his identity clear. Chris would not come to him so naked. The dress suddenly felt heavy in his arms, and he stepped back, behind Fleur, where he could not be seen. His heart beat like drums, and his face burned. 

"Is that a dress?" Justin asked. 

His voice held a twinge JC did not recognise, but it held a note somewhere between malice and glee. The mere sound of it put JC on edge. Fleur snorted and kicked his feet at the sand. He could sense it, too. If JC were an accomplished rider, he would have thrown himself onto his horse and rode away hard. 

Justin approached. "Is it yours?" 

Justin had probably seen him dance with it. The idea of that stirred shame in JC’s belly, and he dropped his head. Night was a private time, and he did not wish to be teased about something so personal. "It is just a dress," JC said. "Why are you here?" 

"Just a dress?" Justin’s arms moved like serpents and the dress was out of JC’s arms before he could tighten his grip. Justin was not much taller than him, but his shoulders were wide and his arms rippled with muscle. JC felt like nothing standing next to him. "Do you intend to wear it? Is this your dress?" 

JC pinched his lips together. "Give it back to me." 

"But it is not yours. Did you steal it? Your people are thieves," Justin said. His eyes danced with mirth, and JC felt his blood begin to boil. _How dare he_ , JC thought, and his fingers curled into two tight fists. "Or do you have a pretty wife?" 

"Give me the dress," JC said. He reached for it, but Justin moved away. 

"You have a secret lover," Justin said. He grinned. 

"I have no such thing. Give me my dress," JC said again. The violence wiggled under his skin, and he thought, dazedly, _I think I will hit this man_. But when he moved forward, Justin merely laughed and danced away with the dress. Torn between anger and shame, JC stepped back and moved behind Fleur. At once, his blood cooled. Tears prickled along his eyes instead. 

"Are you crying?" Justin asked. He appeared, standing behind Fleur’s rump. 

"Please give me my dress," JC said again. His voice wavered unsteadily. 

Wordlessly, Justin held it out. JC snatched it from him and folded his arms around the heavy fabric. He sniffled and hated that he did. No man would cry over a thing so stupid as a stolen dress. No man, it seemed, except him. Suddenly, JC just wished to go back to bed. At least Chris, in the deepest slumber, behaved as though JC belonged there. 

"My apologies," Justin said. 

JC turned away from him and dried his face on his shoulder. "Leave me be." 

"No, I." Justin paused. "I did not think it was so important. I was watching you." 

"You know very little," JC said quietly, but he meant it cruelly. He had heard terrible things about the Scottish. They were boorish and rude and loud. Justin had yet to change his mind about any of them. "And I do not know why you mock me. You wear a dress." 

"A dress?" Justin’s voice hitched. "I do _not_." 

"I can see your legs. That thing you wear, it is a dress," JC said. 

"This is a kilt," Justin said, looking down at his dirty knees, then back up. He seemed honestly affronted, and for that, JC was glad. "This is a sign of honour. The tartan is the one my father wears and his father before him. All of my clan wears it proudly." 

JC lifted his chin. "It is still a dress." 

"Ach," Justin said, "stupid Irish." 

"Stupid Scottish," JC replied. 

JC expected Justin to leave him alone again, but Justin merely stood there, watching him with an odd look. He was a handsome man when he was not scowling, and clean save for the caked dirt on the knobs of his knees. His hair was light. Darker than hay but lighter than mud, and it twisted in woolly tendrils over his shoulders. Very handsome, in a way that Chris was not. 

"It is a very nice dress," Justin said quietly. He kept his fingers twisted in the fabric of his kilt as if he wanted to reach for it again. It seemed as though he meant the words as a truce, so JC nodded. It was a lovely dress. He had been overjoyed when Joe bought if for him. 

Still, JC felt more naked holding it than he would have with it on. He folded it up and put it under the book. The back of his shirt was caught by the wind. The length of his spine prickled with the sudden chill. When JC looked up, Justin had his eyes fixed there but glanced away when he was caught. 

"Why do you not sleep?" JC asked. He felt emboldened with this man, like he had won some battle. Perhaps he had somewhere with his insults. Chris and Joe conversed in them. At times, their friendship seemed based on the other’s faults. 

"I like the night," Justin replied. 

"So do I." 

Fleur neighed. JC turned to him with a smile and rubbed his neck, feeling laughter bubble in his throat when Fleur snorted on his neck. It felt strange, hot and wet, like Chris did sometimes, when he was lost in sleep and opened his mouth against JC’s skin. 

"He is beautiful," Justin said. He ran a touch over Fleur’s back. Justin’s hands were huge, JC noticed, too big for his body. Fleur shuffled happily in place then bowed his head to nuzzle Justin’s locks. "Lance said that I could have one of the foals once it grows big enough to ride." 

"Payment for tending his lands," JC said, and the words left a lingering question on his tongue. He had yet to see Justin do much of anything besides skulk about and look sullen. Lance said his back was bad, so he worked on his own time. JC doubted he worked at all. 

"Aye. Tending his lands." 

Justin’s eyes twinkled merrily, and JC smiled shyly at him. The skin on his face felt warm, as if he had been bathing in sunlight. Justin’s grin was infectious, so JC could not help but mirror it, even if he did not quite understand. That much, he was used to. 

They talked quietly a while. Justin spoke of his home in Scotland and how it was not so different from Ireland, except he still missed it. When JC asked why he had left, Justin would not say. He merely spoke about the sea and how he could never live inland, away from its calming song. The smell of salt filled Justin’s belly when the hunger for home grew too great. 

"I could not imagine leaving this place," JC said. He meant Ireland, the only home he had ever known, even if most of it was as strange to him as anything he could imagine about Scotland. "I would never survive. I would not know where to go, how to live." 

"You make it seem like I did. I stole his horse. Lance," Justin said quietly. He used his finger to draw waves in the sand. His fingers were long like the necks of swans. "He threatened to take my hands for it. Big words for such a small man. I told him that exactly." 

"It is in my experience that you do not mock a man’s height." 

Justin laughed. "Aye. But it calmed him enough that I kept my hands, and he gained a companion." Justin paused and cocked his head. JC smiled at him. He thought it was nice that Lance had taken this boy under his protection. "Why do you travel with them?" 

JC glanced at the stars. "I have no one else." 

"Did you lose your wife?" 

"My wife?" JC asked. 

Justin glanced at the dress. 

"Oh, I have no wife. That dress is. It is just a dress." 

He flickered a look at Justin, who seemed serious. The space between his brows was furrowed as if he was vexed or troubled about the idea that JC had lost someone. Chris was never far enough to be truly out of his reach, but even when JC could taste his skin, they were as distanced as Ireland and Scotland, kept apart by a sea of difference. Perhaps, somehow, he had. 

"The dress is mine," JC said. His heart had lifted from his chest into his ears, and the need to tell someone overwhelmed any need to keep the secret. "It is. I wear it sometimes. It brings me comfort, but I have never had a wife. I doubt I ever will." 

"Are you a girl?" Justin asked. 

"No." JC dipped his fingers into the sand and held a mountain in his hand. "But I was." 

The story came out slowly, and JC gave him all of it, from his life as a young girl hidden behind worlds of musty fabric to his marriage, though he did not name Chris as his husband, to finding out the thing between his legs was nothing a real lady possessed. JC spoke of it calmly. He did not cry. Sometimes, the words clung to his mouth, unwilling to leave. 

There were speckles of gold in Justin’s eyes, the same flecks of colour found in Chris’s. With all his strength, JC never looked away, even when the shame prickled at his brow. It was his story to tell. In any other life, with any other person, it would have been a fairy tale, like the ones he had listened to as a child, only with no true happy ending. 

"Why did they not tell you?" Justin asked when JC had finished. 

JC shook his head. The answer to that was still not his to understand. Instead, JC lifted the book and held it out to Justin. He took it and opened it, flipping through the pages. They rustled like leaves in the wind, piercing the silence of the night like screams. 

"I cannot read a word of this," Justin confessed. "I would not know my own name if I was shown it." 

"I know." JC took the book and set it on top of his dresses to weigh them down again. The book was good for nothing else except frustrating secrets. "If you could, I would not have let you open it. Whatever is in it is mine to discover first. It is why Joe wastes his time with me. Sometimes, it seems hopeless, but I need to know if it will tell me anything. Most nights, I know nothing will make this better, but I do wonder." 

"And if there is nothing in it to tell you who you are?" 

"Then I have lost nothing." 

"You are very brave," Justin said. 

JC lifted his shoulders. He supposed, in a way, he was, though he was still afraid of this new life as a man. It fit him like a new pair of boots: uncomfortable, unfamiliar, unattractive. But even the boots Joe had given him now fit his feet. JC would grow to love it, for what other choice did he have but to accept his manhood? 

"I was to be married. In Scotland. It is why I left," Justin said quietly. The waves nearly stole his words. JC would not have even heard them if he had not been staring at the smooth arc of Justin’s lips. "I woke up on the morning of my wedding, and I thought, if I do this, I will never be happy. I came here, where I knew my father would not look, to escape him." 

"Do you regret it?" 

"No," Justin said without hesitation, "I do not." 

They said nothing more. In the east, the sun had already begun to rise. The edge of the horizon glowed with the promise of a new morning. JC looked at it and thought, quite suddenly, _I do not regret_. He was surprised it was the truth.


	26. Chapter 26

JC had noticed him watching before he ever came close. It was early in the morning. JC had not slept more than a dream’s span, and he could feel the exhaustion tugging at his eyes. The water lapped his belly. He had hoped a bath would strip the lethargy from his skin. 

It was more daring than Chris normally attempted. Such open watching, though JC knew that if anyone looked, they would see only him in the water, hair in spirals around his naked shoulders. But JC knew Chris stood there, looking at him. Heat spread over his skin. 

JC bathed slowly, careful to wipe at the fine hair under his arms, the soft skin of his lower belly. He thought, _look at me_ , and lifted from the water until the waves lapped at the dangling flesh between his legs. When he lifted his eyes again, Chris had vanished. 

On the sand, he dried himself, rubbing a blanket of cloth against his skin. He caught sight of Chris again; he had ducked between the rocks. Chris would come no closer until JC dressed himself. Quickly, JC pulled on his breeches and tightened the laces. The sand was damp and stuck between his toes as he walked. 

Behind the stones, the moss cushioned JC’s head as Chris kissed him. His body arched toward him, but Chris put a hand on his belly and pushed him back. _Touch me_ , JC thought, and closed his eyes. In the dark, it seemed better, for he could not see the sorrow. 

Chris’s mouth was wet and warm. JC licked into it as if Chris desired it. There were times he was unsure. Chris’s hands dug too sharply into his belly, his lips pressed too desperately against JC’s face. Those were the only times he thought to push Chris away. 

More often, it was Chris who broke contact. When he pulled back, JC let him go then looked for his shirt. He found it blown against the cliff face. He put it on and went in search of food. Once his belly was full, he found Joe and sat with him. There were simple words JC knew by then, made of two or three letters. _The easy part_ , he thought sadly. 

Justin hovered nearby, and JC smiled at him. He held up his hand and crooked his fingers, but Justin shook his head. JC looked up at Joe and lifted his eyebrows in question. 

"Aye. If he wishes it," Joe said. 

"He does," JC said and waved Justin over, though it seemed as though his feet were stuck in mud. Justin did not move. Instead, JC raised his voice and shouted, "Justin!" He combed his fingers through the air with more urgency. Still, Justin stayed where he stood. 

"You cannot force a man to read, especially not a proud one." 

"One of these mornings, he will come," JC said. 

"Aye. And on that morning, he is welcome. Until then." 

"Until then," JC echoed. He would have liked to learn with Justin. 

The afternoon he spent napping in the grass. The sun warmed his skin. When he woke, he felt rested and noticed Justin lying near him, eyes closed. Lance sat beside him and smiled warmly at JC then asked if he would like to help with dinner. 

Once the potatoes were boiling, they went to get the milk. The cow moaned lowly as Lance tugged on the pink swells of flesh. JC flushed when he saw them, nearly as deeply as he had when the horses had started to breed. He had been told that animals were not aware of how much they showed or who watched, but JC still felt as though he had violated some sort of privacy. Still, it did not stop him from looking with wonder on what these animals could do. 

"Does it hurt the cow?" 

"I hope not. Though I admit, I am a terrible farmer," Lance said. 

"The cow looks happy," JC decided. It was not his intention to make Lance feel bad. 

After supper, all five of them sat around the fire and talked like friends. Joe told tall tales of adventure and intrigue. He spoke of England and the time he had spent there. When he twisted the truth, Lance would call him on it, and they laughed together. To have such history with someone, JC could scarcely imagine it. They had known each other when they were boys. 

"Aye. I can tell you this one did not used to be so handsome," Joe said. He pinched the smooth flesh around Lance’s mouth. Unlike Chris and Joe, Lance did not wear a beard. Neither, JC had noticed, did Justin. "What was the name they used for you?" 

"The dragon," Lance said. He did not sound wholly pleased. 

Joe’s answering laugh rose from his belly. 

JC cocked his head. He supposed, if he narrowed his eyes, he could understand why. Lance’s eyes were pale and strange, and they were big in his head as if they were the eyes of an animal, not a man. When Lance looked over at him and smiled, JC glanced quickly away. 

The fire roared as the wind picked up. In the crackle of flame, there was a melody. JC heard it and sang with it. It was a simply ditty, one Joe had taught him, and Joe started in with him once he heard it. Justin joined in quickly, though he fumbled the words. 

They sang and laughed. Lance joined in with Joe when they sang about a boy locked in a tower whose only friend was a green-eyed dragon. It sounded wondrous, and Joe made Lance dance the part, though it ended with them tangled in the grass, peals of laughter spilling from their mouths. 

JC danced a little around the fire, when Joe asked him to show them what he knew. He danced a woman’s dance since he knew nothing else. His arms twined above his head. JC swung his hips as he sang songs without words, the melody thrumming in his throat. His hair had grown longer in recent weeks. It slid against his neck like it had when he was a girl. 

When he thought his legs could dance no more, Joe grabbed him by the hips and taught him a couple’s dance. Round and round the fire, JC whirled until his breath came hard on laughter. Lance clapped and stomped the melody, protesting loudly when Justin tugged at him. 

"I do not dance," Lance said. 

Justin laughed. He twined their fingers together and tugged at Lance’s hand. "You just did. I saw you. Think of a better lie than that. Now, come," Justin pulled until Lance gave in, his cheeks red with merriment and the mead Joe had poured generously into their cups. 

JC looked for Chris, but he was nowhere to be seen. It hurt oddly to note his absence, but Joe did not let him dwell. Instead, he pushed JC at Justin and took Lance for himself. They waltzed across the dirt and very nearly fell into the fire. JC laughed so hard that his belly ached. 

Later, Joe stumbled off to bed, and JC followed, still holding onto his hand. Inside, Chris lay on his belly on the small bed, already sleeping. JC turned to Joe, but Joe merely pushed him to his usual sleeping spot by the small window. Obediently, JC climbed onto the mattress and lay down. Joe settled heavily beside him. 

His blood still raced. He could not sleep. JC looked out the window, rubbing his hand at it to clear the glass. The ocean glimmered in the moonlight. He saw Justin at the water’s edge for just a moment before the night swallowed him. JC tried to rest, but his legs were warm from dancing, and he had slept all afternoon. When he thought Joe would not wake, JC climbed over him. He hoped that Chris would wake, but the steadiness of his breathing assured JC that he had fallen into the deepest sleep. 

Outside, he ran to the highest hill and crouched there. Lance’s lands were vast. Cheap and useless, he said, but JC could not imagine owning a piece of the earth. His family had always borrowed it, staying until they were chased by angry landlords. Dispossessed, his father had said, and less of people for it. JC, as he had been told, was even less than that. Nothing. 

JC wondered, sometimes, if his family missed him at all. There had been times, however few, when Maggie treated him like something more than an animal, when she had brushed his hair and spoke to him about their mother. Laura had always been kind, though JC had always thought it was due to fear, as if ugliness was infectious and if she was good it would not spread. 

_But I am not ugly_ , JC thought. He plucked at the grass. He was just a boy. Sons had always been prized over daughters; JC’s older brothers were much beloved by their father. It made little sense to him. If he could only learn to read. Still, he could not. 

JC rolled down the hill then settled at the end, looking up to the sky. The stars. He wanted Chris to come out so he could tell Chris about them, but JC knew he would not. They had kissed that morning. Chris would not touch him again for several days. Sinful, Chris had said, for men to kiss too often. Punishment for sins more than kissing were nothing short of the most terrible ailments. When JC had asked which ones, Chris had ignored him. 

_Is it so wrong_ , JC wondered, _to wish to touch him?_ They had been married. Still they were, since they had never had it annulled. God had not struck them down yet. It still seemed as though it would work, lying together. There was a place JC had discovered with his fingers that led inside, and Chris was always hard under his breeches when they kissed. That was all they needed, if Kelly was to be believed about such things. 

JC touched his fingers to the pendent around his throat. His wedding gift. So long as he wore it, so long as Chris let him keep it, their lives would still be linked. If love was not the reason why Chris could not go forever without his kisses then it was tied somehow to length of leather around his throat. Chris had never asked that it be returned. 

JC rolled to his belly. In the water, he caught sight of Justin. The waves lapped at his knees, licking away the ever-present dirt. Otherwise, he stood still, his flesh naked. JC kept his head low but did not turn away. Grass tickled at his nose. He kept his eyes on Justin. 

He had thought Justin would be handsome under his kilt, and he was. His belly was flat, his thighs thick with strength. Unlike Chris, who was covered in fine black hair, Justin was pale and smooth. Closer, JC was sure he would look less like a statue, but from a distance, Justin was breathtakingly unreal. 

JC watched Justin as he bathed. When Justin splashed water between his legs, JC shivered delightfully, long grass nipping at his ankles. Justin’s hand lingered too long on his manhood. It was long and slender in his palm. JC pushed against the ground as pleasure snaked down his legs. He dug his toes into the damp earth and braced himself. 

JC caught sight of Lance as he walked across the sand. In his hands, he held the length of Justin’s tartan, and Justin moved to him. His wet skin glistened. Justin shook his head suddenly, flinging drops of the ocean from his hair. The spread of his smile was obvious even from a distance. 

JC watched Lance move the cloth over Justin’s bare skin, first to dry him then to wrap him. Clutching the tartan, Lance circled Justin’s narrow waist then slid it knowingly over Justin’s shoulder, like Lance had dressed Justin before. His hands lingered at Justin’s waist. Inside his chest, JC’s heart beat like a drum. 

JC’s eyes followed the kilt when it dropped into the sand. Lifting them, he watched as they kissed. Not chastely, but almost like he and Chris did. At first, JC could not pinpoint the difference, but he noted it soon enough. Lance kept his hands on Justin’s body as Justin’s did the same. The intimacy of the act sent a thrill of pleasure down JC’s spine. 

In his head, somewhere, he knew he was spying on something very personal. _Lovers_ , he thought, and touched his fingers to his mouth. The wind sang gentle love songs in his ear. He could not look away. They touched so tenderly. Justin’s hands roamed under Lance’s shirt then pulled it from his skin. They kissed again, and from where he lay, JC could see Justin laugh. 

_Oh_ , JC thought. His body ached, pressing urgently into the ground. He slid his hand between his belly and the soft grass. The flesh of his manhood was heated almost to flame. JC held it tightly in the vise of his fist. His pulse throbbed along the length of it. 

Lance kissed over the arc of Justin’s shoulders then down to his chest. The nubs of flesh on JC’s chest tightened. That he remembered, Chris’s mouth on him like that and suckling, the wetness of Chris’s tongue. _Men can do that_ , he thought dazedly. And then, with painful understanding, _Chris lied to me._

JC reeled back, a sudden wave of anguish hitting him in the gut. His eyes stayed on Justin and Lance, but his vision had blurred. Chris had lied to him. Justin and Lance, they touched like husband and wife, with their hands. _With_ _their mouths_ , JC thought and swallowed. Lance was, with his mouth. On his knees and kissing between Justin’s legs. Justin was in Lance’s mouth. It was so obviously not the first time they had shared this together. 

Blood thumping in his temples, JC pushed to a stand. The earth gave out from under him, and he tumbled with a yelp down the dune of sand. When he looked up, vision obscured by the tangle of his hair, they had turned to him, both still gloriously naked. 

"I did not mean to spy," JC said, covering his face with his hand, "my apologies!" 

JC ran until his chest ached. The wind cut through his clothes like a knife. A stitch in his side forced him to slow, and he stumbled to sit against the cliff face, cradled at the bottom. The front of his breeches was soaked and sticky. 

_My terrible body_ , JC thought, and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. 

When, finally, he pulled his hands away, he noticed that Joe stood near. At being recognised, Joe stepped forward. With a great sadness in his heart, JC sighed but shifted in the sand to allow Joe to sit with him. He wanted to curl against Joe’s body, to listen to Joe’s heart and steady himself. All over, JC felt wobbly, like he had ridden his horse too long. 

"I saw them," JC said. 

"Aye." Joe tugged on a twist of JC’s hair. "How do you feel?" 

He did not mean to be so petty about it, but he felt towards Lance and Justin how he had felt towards the whore. It made him unbearably sad, and more. JC pinched his lips together for a moment before whispering, "jealous." He dropped his shoulders and breathed outward. 

"You can have that," Joe said. He stroked his thumb against the nape of JC’s neck, speaking lowly in JC’s ear. "If you believe it is right, you can love whomever you chose." 

"But he will not love me back. He tells me every time we kiss, with words and touches. It hurts," JC admitted. Heat prickled in his eyes again, and he pinched them closed. He could feel wetness on his cheeks anyway. "He told me that men could never lie together." 

"Chris." 

JC nodded. He kept his eyes shut. "He lied. All this time, he has been lying to me. What is wrong with me, that he cannot love me like he did? He made me happy, and now. He makes me feel the best I ever have but also the worst. Like I am ugly. Like I will always be." 

"You are not," Joe said and cupped a warm hand to JC’s cheek. "Look at me." 

Eyes still hot with tears, JC did. 

"Believe me when I say you are not. Whatever he does, all that he says. Do not believe it, JC, I beg of you. Who you are is nothing to feel shame over. The man you are becoming, this man I see before me, this is the man you will be, and he is good." 

"Chris says we are sinners," JC said. 

"He believes it. Lord have mercy, but he believes every word of it. We will never agree, him and I, but it does not mean he is right. Listen to me." Joe lifted JC’s face with his hand, threading his fingers through JC’s hair. His eyes were dark like earth. "God created you as you stand before me. That is no sin. You came from his hand." 

JC let no words escape his mouth. 

"That is no sin," Joe repeated. His fingers tightened in JC’s hair. 

"Chris thinks it is," he said. In his heart, it felt like a betrayal. "He wants me to love a woman. He bought me a whore." _You condemn him with every word_ , JC thought, but could not silence his mouth. "She was very beautiful, but I did not want her." 

"Why?" 

"I only wished to be her," JC said, "but I could not tell him that." 

"And then?" 

"What else? I gave my money to her, the coins you had given me to buy boots." 

"Your feet," Joe said, "your boots." 

"Yes. My feet." JC looked down at them where his toes had dug into the cool sand. The flesh was lightly scarred, and the pain was long gone, but there were times they still ached with memory. "Perhaps I deserved it for turning away from that woman," JC admitted. 

"No," Joe said. He gripped JC by the shoulders and shook him. "Women are for men who desire them. They are not for men who look elsewhere. They are not for you, nor Lance, nor Justin." Joe bent his head until their brows touched. JC could feel the damp heat of Joe’s skin bead moisture on his own. Joe whispered, "nor are they for Chris." 

JC’s heart dropped into his belly. "But if that is so. I do not understand why he treats me like I am nothing to him." He hooked a finger into the laces of Joe’s shirt and pulled it to his face. It smelled of Joe, earthy, deep, and he used it to dry his tears. 

Joe said nothing, and perhaps, that spoke everything. Joe understood Chris more than he did, of this much JC was sure, but Joe was also cautious with his knowledge and protective of Chris. There were reasons, then. JC was simply being held from them. 

He was not happy that the conversation had ended, though he knew from the stony look of Joe’s face that nothing more of Chris would be uttered. He still had questions swelling inside him like waves in a storm. JC looked up. "May I ask something?" 

Joe nodded. 

"Lance put his mouth there, on Justin, and Justin let him." He felt his skin flush with heat at the memory. Between his legs, he stiffened again. The fabric of his breeches stuck to him uncomfortably. "Is that the way it should be? When they have no duty to the other?" 

Joe’s face softened. "They do." 

"But they are not married." 

"Men cannot be married," Joe said. JC’s chest tightened, and Joe, as if he could sense heartbreak, put a heavy hand on JC’s shoulder. "They cannot love each other openly, but here, in this place, on this land. Here they have duty to each other like I do to my women, to Kelly." 

JC nodded. 

"Listen to me, JC," Joe said. His eyes had taken on fire, and JC stared at them. The fingers on his skin tightened. JC could feel the urgency in Joe’s grip. "Chris is likely never to change. Once, I thought otherwise, but now I fear it is hopeless. Do you understand what I say?" 

"He kisses me," JC whispered. 

"He keeps it secret." 

"He loves me." 

"He hurts you," Joe said. 

"He does," JC agreed. 

Joe touched a gentle hand to JC’s cheek and plucked his tears. He sniffled wetly and blinked, though the drops of dew clung to his lashes like spider-webs. The world blurred as if he had slept for years and only just awoken. JC sighed. 

"Let me," Joe said. 

JC looked up a moment before lips touched his mouth. His eyes widened. Joe’s kiss was different, more deftly measured, less marred with desperation. The scratch of his whiskers was the only thing familiar. He kept his hands on JC’s neck, fingers tangled in JC’s hair. A determined tongue swept into his mouth. Joe’s eyes stayed closed; JC could see the folds in his eyelids. When Joe pulled back, he looked at JC expectantly. 

"You are a very good kisser," JC said. He patted Joe’s hand kindly. 

"But that is all." 

JC frowned at him. "Is that not enough?" 

A great laugh burst forth from Joe’s mouth. "No! Aye. Far more than I deserve." 

"You will not do it again," JC said slowly. He liked Joe more than just about any man he had met, sometimes even more than Chris, but his heart had never swelled to think of him. 

"No. No, no, I would not dream of it. My eyes look happily to the ladies," Joe assured him. There was more force to his voice than JC thought was warranted, so he squeezed Joe’s hand and offered him comfort. Joe laughed again and hugged him close with one arm. 

JC smiled up at him and felt better. The tears in eyes had dried up, and though his cheeks still felt tight and hot, the sorrow had been sobbed out of him. _At least_ , he thought, _until I see Chris again._ He hooked a finger into the line of leather around his throat. Joe’s words stayed with him even when they had finally walked back to the cottage and lay down to sleep.


	27. Chapter 27

Joe had woken him that morning with a rough shake of his shoulder. Still blearily with sleep, Chris had been told to wake and join him on a trek. Where, Chris could not remember being told, but he roused himself from bed and dressed. 

The horses were saddled by the time he emerged from the cottage. Overhead, the clouds hung low and grey. It would rain before the day was out. He only hoped the storm would lack the severity to destroy Lance’s fragile crops. The man was no farmer. The land, unforgiving. 

They rode for a great many hours, following the curve of the ocean. The spray kept them continually damp. Chris watched for another farmstead, but the land for as far as he could see was empty. _Only a fool would_ _live this far out_ , Chris thought. He would never have thought to mistake Lance for one, until he came to settle here. 

"It is close," Joe said. "Tie your horse. We will walk the remainder." 

Chris looked at him but nodded. Perhaps the terrain was too steep. He had seen men attempt to build houses into places horses could not follow, keeping the fertile land for farming and grazing. Chris thought they had travelled north, but he could not read the sun like Joe. 

The places they had seen together, the distances they had travelled. They had been like night and day that first month. Joe far too clean and proper; Chris still too wild and angry. Joe had been eager for help and not too proud to ask for it. Unwillingly at first, Chris had offered it, if only for the wealth Joe had claimed. Years later, and they still walked together. 

"Here," Joe said. 

Chris looked over at him. There was nothing so far as his eye could see, just green grass and an old forest, tiny and insignificant where the sky met the land. A solitary tree drooped beside them, its limbs long and low. Unless they were chasing sprites, this place was nowhere. 

"Sit with me, Kilpatrick," Joe said. 

"We wait for someone," Chris said. The words came slowly, as if confused whether they formed a question or not. They had been known to meet with people, travelling apothecaries and medicine men from the east, under weeping willows. 

"Sit," Joe said, "so we might speak." 

Chris sat. In the sky, the clouds gathered. They were heavy with rain, painted grey. 

"He tells me you kiss him and keep him quiet about it," Joe said. 

Chris forced his eyes to stay on the brewing storm. Inside, his heart beat rapidly against his skin. To keep his fingers from lifting to his chest and holding it in, he curled them into a tight fist. In his belly, a mixture of shame and horror twisted. Men were burned for what they did. 

"You will not turn me in," Chris said. He spoke it to his knees. He had seen them, men like that, tied to posts in the centre of a pyre. _And the fire_ , Chris thought. He could still feel the phantom heat, eating at his skin. The priests had never stopped it. They had allowed it. 

"Do you honestly possess the wit of a dull pig?" Joe asked. 

From most men’s tongues, Chris would have laughed, but Joe had never been most men. Instead, the skin under his hair prickled, and he thought, _run_. He made to stand, but Joe’s fingers grabbed him and bit into his skin. When he moved again, Joe yanked him hard into the grass. A sharp pain twisted in Chris’s shoulder. 

"We simply must speak," Joe insisted. 

Chris understood why it seemed so odd. Anger danced in Joe’s eyes. Not irritation nor worry, but fiery indignation, the likes of which Chris had never seen. Joe was an even-tempered man. Little fazed him. But the press of his fingers, the dig of his nails. He was aflame. 

"Lance and Justin are lovers, Chris." 

_Lovers_ , Chris thought. If his belly had not been empty, he would have tasted it in his mouth. Regardless, he felt bitterness on his tongue, pressing against his teeth. _Lovers_. Chris covered his face with a hand. The dim light suddenly seemed too harsh. 

"So tell me, Kilpatrick, why it is you are attempting to destroy his life as you have so successfully destroyed your own?" Joe’s fingers loosened. Chris rubbed his wrist. There were no words he could offer. The pitch of Joe’s voice sounded like a warning. "Tell me, so I might understand why it is you are so stupid." 

Heat flashed in Chris’s head. Stupid. _How dare he_ , Chris thought. 

"If you love him-" 

"I am no sodomite!" Chris shouted. Quick, he struck out. His hand made only the slightest blow against Joe’s face. He missed all but a few wisps of his thick hair, which tangled around his knuckles. "I am no buggerer," he said, quieter, as if the weeping willow could hear. 

"Distasteful terms," Joe said, "invented by the fearful." 

"Men like that." Chris swallowed the bile that laced his throat. "I am not like that." 

"No?" 

"No," Chris said. The blood thumped against his temples as if it sought to strike blows. Dull hurt like the ache that followed a beating days passed. _A familiar sort of pain then_ , Chris thought, and felt heat spring to his eyes. "It is disgusting. I would never." 

"You kiss him." 

"I. No," Chris said. Such accusations, such horrible truths. 

"Chris," Joe said. He put his hand on Chris’s neck, fingers curling where hair greeted skin. Chris kept his head bowed as if in prayer. "I have passed no judgement on Lance, nor would I think to. God made you-" 

"And He would see me in hell soon enough for it!" Sharply, Chris pulled away. Joe’s hair tore where it hand tangled with Chris’s fingers. Joe’s face stayed stoic. _Such a man_ , Chris thought, and pushed at him when Joe reached. "Not all of us are blind to sin, Lord Joseph." 

"When there is nothing to see-" 

"Nothing! What of your bastard children, Joe?" 

"Do not speak ill of them, Kilpatrick, I warn you." 

"No? Your three lovely daughters," Chris said. The ground was soft beneath his feet when he stood, and for a moment, he felt tall. When Joe stood, that faded, but he would not back down. He would not. "Do you think so little of them, Lord Joseph?" 

"You know they are my world," Joe said. His eyes were dark like mud. 

"And yet," Chris said. He let the words hang like storm clouds, grey and low. "You have no idea to what you have condemned them! The fires that await them, the infinite agony, the unending sorrow. All because you cannot keep your cock out of your whores!" 

"At least they will be in fine company!" Joe roared, lifting his arms to the heavens. The sky looked as if it prepared to bleed. "All your life, certainly for as long as I have been so utterly blessed with your presence, you have blamed others for your own misery." 

"I am damned. You know I am," Chris said. "My soul is black with sin." 

"Sin!" Joe cracked a bitter laugh. "And how have you sinned, Chris? Tell me all the grievous deeds you have committed, the women you have raped, the babes you have murdered. Sin, Chris, is for the evil. You are not. You are merely ignorant, merely a coward." 

"You know who my father is!" 

"And it is his weight to bear, his sin to suffer, that he forced himself on your mother. It will never be yours. Your sin, Chris, is not that you were born." Joe looked more tired than Chris remember seeing him. Exhausted, like he had fought a war and lost. "But I cannot make you listen to me. All my words fall on the deafest of ears." 

"You are not always right, Lord Joseph," Chris said. 

"Nor are you, Kilpatrick. We are just men, after all," Joe said. 

Chris bowed his head. He felt the first drops of rain against his neck. The wind had picked up, chilling him through his damp clothes. It was quiet, the roar of the ocean long banished by the distance from it. Chris had forgotten the amplitude of his own thoughts. 

"The life you play with is not your own," Joe said. "He feels, Chris. He is not a doll." 

"Aye," Chris said. "I will not touch him again." 

"Ach!" Joe turned away. "It is no use even speaking to you." 

"And you talk in riddles. Tell me, then, what actions of mine would please you." 

Joe laughed. It came like a loud bark, etched with bitterness and rue. The rolling thunder above them swallowed most of it, but Chris could not block it all from his ears. "And you would listen to me? Go, Kilpatrick, go live your life and be miserable. You exhaust me." 

"Take me back then," Chris said. He glanced around. In all directions, the hills rolled the same around the willow. The rain made it difficult to see very far, for it came down like a light mist. _And my eyes_ , Chris thought. They were poor on the very best day. "Joe." 

"And live with sodomites, Chris? Lance will not let you back on his land. He welcomed you only because I had been blessed with his faith. I am ashamed that I have betrayed him so deeply," Joe said. Chris followed his fist as it lifted. One finger unfurled. "So go. Get a wife for yourself. Do see if you can find an actual woman this time." 

The rain caught in his eyelashes and blurred his sight. Chris’s legs felt leaden. He could not move. _Joe_ , he thought, _he is telling me to leave_. Leave, as if Chris had somewhere to go. No land, no family. No horse, for the poor beast was tied to some misplaced tree. Chris thought again, _Joe is telling me to leave_ , but still, he could not move. 

"Go, then," Joe said. 

Chris shook his head and dropped his eyes. 

"Go, Chris." 

"I will not," Chris said. Rain poured over him. Wet tendrils of hair clung to his face. Water drenched his clothes, and he felt naked, bared. _And cold_ , Chris thought. His skin felt as though winter had passed over it and left it frozen. "I will not touch him again. I give you my word that I will never-" 

It was only a breath before hands were around his neck. _Joe_ ,Chris thought, and lifted his fingers to pry at them. Together, they tumbled to the grass. The rain had turned the earth to mud. Chris sunk into the dirt and thrashed about, struggling for breath. _It comes freely,_ Chris thought. He gasped, but the fingers did not loosen. 

"I cannot," Joe said above him. His eyes were closed, his hair a wet mess around his face. "I cannot," he said again, and if there were more words, they were swallowed by the scream of the sky. Chris struggled against him, feeling himself falling deeper into the earth. 

"Let me up!" Chris shouted. A foul taste twisted around his tongue. Mud poured into his mouth, and he choked on it. Fingers were still pressed again his throat, but it was the earth that threatened to steal his breath. "I will drown, you fool!" 

The rain came harder. It was as if the knives of light through the sky had split open the ocean. Chris arched his back and threw Joe from his body. Blinded by the mud, he crawled. A weight settled over him and rolled him to his back. Joe. He caught Chris’s hands and wretched them above his head. His fingers disappeared into the dirt. 

" _He_ tried to drown himself. That is how I found him, Chris, after you violated him and stole his hair. It should have been his choice, not yours!" Joe’s voice rose above the cry of the storm, and Chris closed his eyes. 

_No_ , Chris thought. JC was stronger than that. He would never submit to such an act. 

"He walked into the water. I watched him with my own eyes. He did not fight it to save you the humiliation. And you repay him by abusing him further. To be forced into silence, all because he is stupid enough to love you! But he is not the only one who is stupid." 

Chris could only stare at him. 

"So go, Chris. I cannot do this with you any longer. Go!" 

Joe hauled him up and kissed him. A bruising, painful kiss that split their lips with his teeth and mixed their blood. Chris held onto him, to push him away, to keep him near. Chris kissed back. _Lord help me_ , Chris thought, and took Joe’s blood into his body. 

With an anguished cry, Joe threw him to the ground. Chris knew Joe’s lips were dark red as his likely were, painted with warm blood. From the sight, Joe turned away. He took a first step then a second. Joe did not look back. Not once, did Joe look back to see him. 

Desperately, Chris moved forward and tripped. His boots were stuck in the mud. Blindly, Chris tore his feet from them and reached for Joe’s back. Chris pushed onward, though the earth grabbed at his ankles and slowed him. Finally, breathless, he collapsed at Joe’s feet. 

Chris held onto his legs, forcing Joe to still. The rain pounded upon his head, and Chris could not see. Joe’s hands settled on his shoulders. Chris pressed his face to Joe’s knees. Though he had words in his heart, he could not force them to his tongue. The things Joe had said, all of it. Chris knew what Joe wanted, but fear held it in him. 

In time, Chris’s hold loosened. His arms had begun to cramp. Joe knelt down with him in the mud. He threaded his fingers through Chris’s hair and lifted Chris’s face to the rain. Joe’s own was covered in dirt and blood. Chris lifted his hand and wiped at Joe’s face. There were trails of clean skin where none should be. _Tears_ , Chris thought. 

Joe’s arms settled around his torso and pulled him close. The beat of his heart was steady against Chris’s yet it seemed too fast, too hard. The rain fell harder. In the sky, streaks of white flashed bright as the sun. The roar of the storm deafened. Above it, Chris could hear Joe’s breath. 

"I do. I am," Chris said softly. "Men." His heart rose to his throat. "I. I look at them." 

Joe’s arms tightened. 

"But I have seen them. Us. Them, I have seen what is done. Have been told, there are." Chris turned his face to Joe’s neck, and he thought, _just breathe_. Joe smelled of dirt and blood. "I am terrified," he whispered, "of what awaits me. In hell." His eyes closed. "In life." 

"Admitting fear only makes you more a man," Joe said. 

"And less of one." 

"Aye," Joe said. "That, too." 

Though the world stormed around them, it seemed quiet. Joe pressed his lips to Chris’s temple and left a warm kiss. Without another word, Joe led him to the horses. They kept their fingers laced. As they approached, Alistair snorted and kicked. He hated rain as Chris well knew, but the beast let him mount with little trouble. 

The arc of the ocean bowed to the little cottage. The sky still wept, though the violence had been flushed from it. Rainwater swept filth into Chris’s mouth, and he spit it out. As they drew nearer, he could see Lance and Justin. Between them, their hands touched. _Lovers_ , Chris thought. _How did I not know?_

Chris slid from his horse and let Joe take the reins. His shoulder ached. The split in his lip oozed blood into his mouth. Still, it rained. Chris worried briefly for Lance’s crops then Joe touched a hand to his elbow. Chris looked at him, realising he had not moved as if his feet were still stuck in mud. Lance and Justin watched. 

"Do they know?" Chris asked. "That I. I said terrible things." 

"I shall not tell them," Joe said. "But I cannot do this again, Chris. If you do not-" 

"I will be a better man. I give you my word, for whatever good it is." 

"Your word has always been enough," Joe said. 

Chris nodded. When he lifted his head again, he saw JC. Hair clung to his face, longer now, growing out. Chris thought of the braid JC kept with his skirts. The very hair Chris had nearly torn from his head like a monster as if stripping him of it somehow made him into a man. By himself, with himself, JC had done a better job with that than Chris ever could. 

JC approached. He kept his arm before him, fingers clenched into a fist. Without a word, Joe folded his own over it and stopped him. There was a flicker between them, something private, something deep. _How did I not know that, either?_ Chris thought. The depth of their friendship hovered where they no longer needed to speak. 

Between JC’s fingers, a line of dark leather snaked out. At once, Chris’s eyes flickered to JC’s throat. Profound understanding came over him, and he stepped forward. Gently, Chris put a hand on Joe’s wrist and urged him away. With that same cautious touch, Chris unfolded each of JC’s fingers until his hand opened like a wildflower. There, on the palm, sat the pendent. 

Chris took it and bowed his head. Rain beat heavy upon him. 

To each other, they said nothing.


	28. Chapter 28

Alistair finally mounted his first mare in the last weeks of summer. There had been little time left for dallying. Alistair embraced the act with vigour. Pride swelled in Chris’s chest, though the damn beast bit him when he came offering oats. Undeterred, Chris brushed his mane. 

A quiet had settled over Chris like a blanket. Not melancholy so much as regret. His days he spent in the hills, reading from Joe’s bible. Joe had bent the corners on certain pages. Chris paid them much note. There was comfort there, somewhere. 

Alone, but not wholly lonely. Chris woke each morning before the sun. Joe, he could scarcely face out of shame, and JC made him sad. The other two, Chris could not look at them without feeling like a fraud. Their acts had twisted his view of them. He could see nothing but his own imagination of what it would be like to. Of how two men would couple. 

Joe tried to speak with him, but Chris could not. There were times when they merely sat together and shared the silence. Joe’s hands were dry and soft. A man who had never laboured, except to make potions and spells, the hands of a wealthy man parading as far less. Chris held them when offered but still, would give no words in return. 

Lance would rise even before him and drag his tired body to the fields. From his hilltop, Chris watched. Lance struggled against the land. He had no command over it. Chris knew nothing about him, except that Joe had his faith and Lance, Joe’s love. They had met before, once for each year Chris and Joe had travelled together. _Yet I do not know him_ , Chris thought. 

Alone, then, and the slightest bit lonely. No friends, save Joe. No lovers, save a handful of whores, all bedded before he was twenty. Sisters who barely knew of his existence, and a mother he had left for his own safety. There were welts, still, on his back, his thighs. Deep scars that mapped his path to adulthood. 

Late summer, Chris woke to a muted noise. Blearily, he sat up and grabbed for his breeches. His body felt slow, as if it had been asleep a lifetime. The sun was not yet up but daybreak hovered nearer than night. Behind him, he sensed Lance stirring, but his attention was drawn to the open window. Hail raced down from the heavens. 

"Lord have mercy on me," Lance said, softly. He had opened the door and stood there, His eyes had opened as if the sight was unearthly. _If only_ , Chris thought. When Lance moved, Chris put his hand on Lance’s shoulder and said, 

"Be still. There is nothing you can do." Under his hand, Lance’s skin shifted, but he did not move. His muscles tensed as if pulled from all directions. Gently, Chris squeezed where neck met shoulder as though it offered comfort. 

"There will be nothing left." 

"There is always something left behind," Chris said. His eyes dizzied. He closed them. 

In time, the noise slowed then finally faded into dawn. Under his hand, Lance had slumped. He seemed as though he was already defeated. Chris had thought him to be a man of great wealth. _Why then_ , he thought, _does Lance act as if his world has been robbed?_

"Wake the Scotsman. We will salvage what we can," Chris said and pushed Lance gently towards his sleeping lover. He turned to Joe and JC. Like Chris did when they shared sleeping quarters, JC slept partially under Joe’s strong body. In sleep, Joe could not tell lover from friend. 

Chris roused them with an explanation. Joe rolled from the bed like a log down a hill, and JC followed. He moved much slower. His hair tousled around his face, and he smiled, softly, at Chris. JC tugged on his shirt and boots, then suddenly looked up and stared. Chris followed his eyes to Justin, who wore nothing. The length of his tartan draped over his hands. 

"Get that boy some breeches," Chris said, roughly. 

"This is a sign of honour," Justin said. "The tartan is the-" 

"Breeches," Chris repeated. He forced it through clenched teeth. 

"Justin, I beg, do as he says," Lance said. He touched Justin’s arm at the elbow. Silently, Justin nodded and wore the breeches that Lance offered to him. They were too short on him and too wide around the hips. He circled his waist with a length of twine. 

Outside, Chris grabbed a scythe and walked to the wheat fields. The drowned grass lay on the ground, flattened by the weight of the hail. _Almost all of it ruined_ , Chris thought but dared not say it aloud. Instead, he barked instructions to start the salvage. Almost all, but not the whole of it. Chris had seen worse, and recovered from it, in his lifetime. 

For the length of morning, they worked in heavy silence. Lance uttered no words. As the noonday sun settled in the sky, Joe began to sing. A low, comforting melody swept over them, and Chris felt steadier. The field had turned into a bog. He worked, ankle-deep, in mud. 

JC gathered and carried the wheat. Chris had tried him on the scythe, but he had nearly sliced off his own toes, boot and all. JC’s nimble fingers made him good with knots. He had learned them, he said, from the weaving he had done with his mother as a child. 

The heat was a damp, permeating one. They worked through the day, breaking only for lunch then, later, supper. As the sun dipped, so did shoulders, work weary and pained. Chris’s own hands had been rubbed raw. The blood, he wiped on his breeches. The blisters, he ignored. 

"To bed with you all," Lance said, finally. His body leaned, propped up by the handle of the scythe he held. If he was to let go, his hands would not go back. "I will finish what I can tonight. There is little left to be done. My thanks, for all the help you have given." 

"I can work longer," Justin said. 

"The slump of your back betrays you," Lance said softly. He mustered a brave smile and bowed his head. "Sleep, and I will join you later, when I am ready. JC," his eyes lifted, "help him, please. I know his aches, just as I know his pride." A thin smile crossed his lips. Justin mirrored it. They did not touch. 

"If my hands were not," JC said. He let the words drift to the wind. His skin was sliced finely, edged with bright blood on each line. Not deep, Chris knew, but many. Together, they ambled off, slow with pain. The cottage was a mere speck in the distance. 

"Joe, you are no farmer." 

"Nor are you," Joe replied. 

Lance smiled. "Ah, but you are even less of one." 

The tanned skin around Joe’s eyes crinkled. 

"Together we will finish the last of it," Chris said. Though his eyes twitched with exhaustion, his body had not yet given protest. Years spent working like an animal had made him strong. Joe looked at him, and Chris bowed his head. He had given his word to Joe that he would be better man. Chris knew of no other way. 

Joe left. He returned with a pot of balm and strips of tattered cloth then parted again. The night had settled into a comfortable cool. The wind still blew from the ocean, but it had not the sweltering heat of the day. Chris’s clothes clung to him despite the reprieve. His shirt bunched under his arms. Around his neck, hung the lion pendent. It felt branded to his skin. 

They finished long into night. The bushels they had salvaged were few. No words Chris could offer would make them more. Not even enough to feed two men until next harvest. Lance knew. Chris could see understanding in the strange green of his eyes. Without word, Chris sat across from him and took one of his hands. They were without calluses. 

"You wonder why I am here, do you not?" 

"Aye," Chris said. He scooped his fingers into the balm and left a dollop on Lance’s skin. 

"We are more alike than you would think, Chris." The corners of Lance’s mouth lifted, but no light reached his eyes. Exhaustion bled from him. Chris, merely looking at him, felt the weariness settled in his bones. "It is Joe’s way to gather unfortunates under his wing." 

With the blunt edge of his thumb, he spread ointment over Lance’s hand. 

"You know now that Justin is my lover. I had given Joe permission to tell you sooner." 

"It was better for you that he did not," Chris admitted. He untangled a length of cloth and held it to Lance’s wrist. He began to bind Lance’s hand. "Still, I am not comfortable. With it," Chris could not look at him, "with. With love between males." 

A sharp noise bled from Lance’s throat. "Aye. But you face me now, and you touch my hand and tend my wounds." Chris lifted his gaze. The mask Lance wore seemed carved from stone. "My father has not seen my eyes since I was a boy. I disgust him." 

"He did not have you killed?" 

"He may have his chance yet," Lance said. A bitter smiled pierced his lips. 

Chris knotted the gauze at Lance’s wrist. 

"This land is unforgiving, and I cannot learn fast enough to appease it." 

"Ulster-" 

"Too English. My father is a well-known noble. Joe’s family is looked on as servants by us. Too Irish, you see," Lance said. He bent his fingers to his palm and tested the bandage. When they held, Chris moved to the other hand. "We met in England, though. Did Joe tell you that?" 

"He has told me very little about you," Chris said. 

"Aye. I swore him to secrecy once. He is a good man." Lance’s face flickered with discomfort as Chris passed his fingers over a blister. "We were barely beyond boyhood then. It seems a lifetime ago. Both of us deemed to minister god, him as the third son, me as the sodomite son. I would have lived my life as a servant had I never met him." 

"You would be fed," Chris said, "and living in England." 

"Aye. But dead in body and in mind," Lance said. He lifted his hand as Chris wrapped the final length of the cloth. Chris peered at him across the distance of his palm. "If I set foot in England, my life is forfeit. For a small sum of coins, I sold my name. I am nothing now." 

"But safe," Chris said. 

"Aye. From my father, from a wife, but I cannot promise my lover that we will not starve through winter." Lance spread his fingers and held them out. They seemed like spider webs, weak in appearance yet stronger than he could imagine. _It is a wonder_ , Chris thought, _he has lasted this long_. "Come. Give me your hands, so we might rest." 

Chris gave Lance his hand. The pain had trickled down his arm. Tomorrow, he would allow his body respite and feed himself if his grip allowed him fare, but nothing else. In the air, Chris thought he caught scent of something. Not salt. It touched his nose then was gone.


	29. Chapter 29

Breathless, JC ran barefoot through the thick grass. It nipped at his ankles. He laughed as Justin grabbed for him and danced from his hands. What started as simple teasing had turned into the most delightful game. They ran circles around Lance, who grabbed for Justin. 

"Not even to spare your lover a kiss?" JC shouted in hopes Justin would look to Lance instead of him. His legs burned with fire. Still, he would not stop. If he did, the game belonged to Justin. His pride did not allow him rest. 

"The day is long, and we kissed this morning," Justin replied with a laugh. His arms were long, and they brushed JC’s waist. _Too close_ , JC thought, and clambered like a newborn horse up the grassy knoll. Justin ran close behind him and covered his tracks. 

They nearly knocked Joe over when they raced past, and he laughed so loud it stayed with them even when they skidded down the sand dune to the water. When the ocean touched his feet, JC paused. His breath came in gasps. His chest ached, but he was merry. 

"You are cornered," Justin said. He paced. "Unless you wish to swim." 

"I cannot," JC admitted. Carefully, he mirrored Justin’s footfalls. He hoped for a misstep that would allow him a window for escape. "And you would only follow me in. Your body is bigger than mine. I could not out swim you even if I could." 

A smirk crossed Justin’s face. "Then you concede." 

"I do not!" 

JC ducked around him. The sand slid under his feet, and he skidded unsteadily until he found his balance. Behind him, Justin shouted like an excited dog. JC ran. His hair brushed over his face, and he pushed at it. Lance would have bindings for his hair; JC simply forgot to ask whenever he saw him. Lance kept his hair tidy, bound like a knot of golden silk. 

"Peace!" Justin finally shouted. "You win, JC." 

"Then you will ask Joe to teach you?" JC asked. 

"Aye." 

They found Joe where they had left him, but JC allowed Justin a moment to ask Joe privately. Inside, his heart still raced. He put his palm against it. Life beat a melody inside him. Tasting a smile on his lips, he sat with Joe and Justin and took his lessons. Justin’s presence became common after that. Even when Joe grew weary, they stayed and learned together. 

Even Justin’s attention was not infinite. He inevitably wandered, drawn away by Lance. Lance wore his pride on his face, and Justin was attracted to it always. Those times, JC would unwrap his book from his dresses and look at it. Words like "death" and "son", those he understood, but the language was still too high for him to reach. One word, that repeated a hundred fold in the first block of pages, he had written down. He would ask Joe about it, later. 

Chris often watched them when they huddled on the hill. He rarely spoke nowadays. Sorrow dragged at him. His eyes were sunken, and his face seemed gaunt. Chris spent his time in the fields, helping Lance learn the land. They had begun to clear an area of rich soil that Lance had not known was there. Chris knew more about farming than JC had thought he would. He was grateful Chris had found something to keep him busy, though he still worried. 

JC had taught Justin to dance. At first, JC had protested with force. A man was not supposed to dance as a woman would. It was simply not done. Justin had been insistent and unrelenting until, finally, JC agreed. Later, when the others came to gather and watch and he saw the look in Lance’s eyes, JC understand why he had been asked. Lance looked upon Justin with such desire. They had disappeared after Justin had danced on his own. 

JC told himself that the heavy feeling in his belly was not jealousy. But he knew he lied. He had begun to realise how hard it would be. To love men. Chris knew, and JC understood that, but he did not let himself be disheartened. His heart still clung to hope. 

Each morning, he touched his own throat and thought, _I am naked without it_. Chris wore the pendent around his own neck instead. JC had seen it peek out from under his shirt like a shy flower. There were times he thought to run his thumb across the path of the leather. Instead, he spent time sewing tattered clothing. He worked on the table where the light came in bright through the door. The slide of the needle and thread through the cloth calmed his nerves. 

"You do not have to do that," Chris said one day. His hair was slicked to his brow and neck. There were smudges of dark earth on his face. He smelled deliciously male. The aroma rose the hair on JC’s arms. It was the first thing Chris had said to him in days. The last having been a compliment about the meat JC had stewed with potatoes. 

"My fingers fit through these holes," JC said. He stuck one through the breeches and wiggled it. Chris frowned. "Lance is not very good with stitching, so I am helping the only way I know." JC cocked his head. "Should I not offer my skills if they are a woman’s?" 

Chris settled in a chair and shrugged. Around his neck, JC could see the rope of leather. 

"You also have a hole. Give me your breeches, and I will sew it," JC said. He kept his voice steady. It was not an invitation. Chris lifted an eyebrow, and JC mirrored both. Chris’s clothing hung as if one sharp wind would blow them off. "And there is warm water if you wish to bathe." Chris was covered in filth from the edge of his hair to his toes. 

Chris stripped off his breeches and wrapped a blanket around his waist. Setting down Lance’s breeches, JC poured water into the basin for him and reached for a cloth. Chris took it. He bowed his head in thanks. JC smiled and tucked a leg under him. Swiftly, he knotted the thread on Lance’s breeches and broke it off. 

"We will have to leave soon," JC said. Gathering Chris’s breeches, he started to sew. 

"Aye. But not too soon. The horses are bred, but there is still the matter of Lance’s lands. The storm took most of his wheat. What is left is stunted." Chris dipped his hands into the water. They were still covered in sores. Chris had not let them heal. "The potatoes have thrived but nothing else. He intends to sell some of his cattle." 

"The cows?" JC frowned. "He loves the cows." 

Chris looked at him then laughed sharply. JC jumped back. The needle pricked his thumb, and he chewed it into his mouth. Around it, though, he smiled. Chris’s laughter was a rare delight. He chuckled as he dipped the cloth into the water. Happiness welled in JC’s chest. 

"He loves Justin," Chris said. 

The needle nipped JC’s thumb again. It slid in deeply, and anxiety turned in his belly. Usually, he was not so clumsy when he sewed. JC had learned to be careful. The sheer idea of needles made him dizzy. JC looked up. "He does. And Justin loves him." 

Chris nodded. His eyes stayed on JC too long, and JC returned his gaze to the hole as he stitched. He had noticed it before. When Chris bent over, pale skin had peeked teasingly through the seat. It had been a wonderful treat. _I have ruined my own game_ , JC thought. He smiled at his hands. His hair fell before his face, hiding his merriment. 

They lapsed again into silence. JC’s tongue felt big in his mouth. 

"May I tell you something?" He asked. It came before he could swallow it. 

Chris nodded. He kept his eyes on the bowl of water, his hands at his face with the cloth, but JC knew Chris’s full attention was on him. Still, he waited until Chris lifted his head. His brow lifted in question. Beads of water trickled down his throat. 

"I was born at summer’s end," JC said. 

"Then you are a year older," Chris said, and JC nodded. Eighteen had, once, seemed too old. When he had still dreamed of a husband, eighteen had been the age he thought was the end. At eighteen and unmarried, his life would be nothing forever. "But still so young. A babe." 

"I am not," JC said. He ducked his head and heard Chris’s laughter. "You are not so old." 

"Soon. Come harvest, I will be. That is when I was born," Chris said. 

"I will remember," JC said. 

Chris dipped his head then returned to bathing. JC’s listened to the soft plop of drops as they fell back into the bowl, the gentle swish of cloth through water. From the corner of his eye, he watched Chris wash over his shoulders, under his shirt. His skin had a rosy darkness to it. 

"Justin is teaching me to ride Fleur without a saddle," JC said. 

"So I have seen," Chris said. 

JC nodded. "I am not very good." 

"You will be," Chris replied. "I have faith in your ability to learn." 

JC smiled and bowed his head. No other words came to him. He put his eyes back to the hole. The needle caught his thumb a third time, and a whimper touched his lips. A drop of bright blood rose to taunt him. Gently, without word, Chris took his hand and held the cloth to it. 

"My thanks," JC said. His heart fluttered like birds’ wings in his chest. Inwardly, he chastised himself. He had returned the pendent. They had not touched since then, had barely shared a word. JC could not hush the pulsing beat. "Your sleeve is ripped." 

"I have lived my life in tatters," Chris replied. He seemed unwilling, so JC yanked on it. Like a sheet of paper, it ripped cleanly into two pieces. In his throat, Chris growled. JC smiled at him and held out his hand. Without another word, Chris stripped it off. 

JC stitched as Chris washed. He kept his eyes on the needle, though they drifted. Chris had strong arms, matted with black hair. Those arms had held him once. Those arms had hurt him once, too. JC knotted the thread and broke it. The sleeve would be harder to reattach. 

"Have you ever left Ireland?" 

"Never," Chris said. The cloth arced under his arms. Drops of dew clung to the hair. 

"The others have," JC said. 

"Aye. Lance and Joe met in England. He has told me about it." JC lifted his eyebrows and leaned forward. Eagerness to know made him giddy. He tapped a toe to Chris’s elbow. "The monasteries are dull, but the women are beautiful. It is like here but with too many English and mead like piss." 

"I should still like to see it, but then, much of Ireland remains a mystery to me. Even now, I am not sure where we live. You tell me nothing," JC said. Again, he poked at Chris. Chris grabbed his foot. Merrily, JC grinned at him. "Or is it that you do not know yourself? Joe says you lose yourself easily." 

"Lies," Chris said, though his mouth smiled. 

JC pinched his lips together. 

"I have been known to walk the wrong way," Chris admitted. 

Tucking his foot under him, JC let the silence settle again. It was not uncomfortable, but he felt almost desperate for the sweet melody of Chris’s voice. They could be friends. They would be, if Chris could merely look at him again. It seemed a distant memory, but there had been a time when his eyes were not mired with sorrow and guilt. 

"It is kind of you to help Lance," JC said. It ripped from his teeth before he could snap his mouth shut. The sleeve still had to be sewed. It puddled on his lap, stitched only thrice. Outside, he could hear Lance’s low laughter and Joe’s shouts of glee. Justin would be with them. 

Chris splashed his face. "I will not let a man starve for my own foolishness." 

JC felt his shoulders stiffen. "I would never suggest so," JC said. 

"Aye. No. I know," Chris said, "but I could. I nearly did." 

JC’s teeth pierced his lip, drawing warm blood. It tasted like the metal on a blade. 

Sidelong, Chris glanced at him. He drew a hand across his mouth then spoke. "I told you of my mother’s husband." JC nodded. He set the shirt aside and focussed all of himself on Chris’s words. "I. He was unkind to me. Worked me in the fields as though I was an animal." 

JC’s mouth felt dry. His throat felt swollen. For these reasons, he kept his quiet. Chris stood. The chair scraped against the ground and nearly toppled, but he did not leave. The blanket around his waist loosened. Chris presented his back as the cloth dropped. 

Scars. Deep scars, across his rear and his thighs. JC touched a finger to one and mapped the hurt. Chris shivered but otherwise remained still. If the world still lived outside, JC could not hear it. Chris’s breath filled his ears. Scars. Someone had hurt this man to his soul. 

"That is why you know so much," JC said. Chris had been bare before him other times, but JC was ashamed that he had never noticed the marks. _Too busy admiring his manhood_ , JC thought. His belly ached with a sudden dreadful sickness. 

"Aye. Though it is knowledge I wish was not in me. Ignorance is a sorry state, but my memories. They make it difficult, to help him, but Lance is a good man. He does not deserve what has been done to him," Chris said, "and I will not make his burden worse." 

"That is very noble," JC said. "You are a better man than you think." 

"Someday, I hope that will be true." 

Chris wrapped his waist again and stepped to the window. There he stood, arms crossed before him, back bare. His dark hair hung over his shoulders like tendrils. There was a space where the locks parted that revealed the line of the pendent. Long and dark like a cut. 

JC brought the sleeve to his face, careful to make the stitches small and tight. Inside, his belly twisted. He had upset Chris without intending hurt. There was too much he did not understand. Too many things he did not know to avoid. Joe knew, but rarely did he intervene. 

Outside, Justin cursed. Joe’s laughter was teasing, and JC knew that was what Chris watched. Justin or Joe or Lance, but not him. On the table, JC shifted his legs and turned away from Chris. The shirt smelled of him. JC kept it close to his nose and pretended he was blind. 

"How goes your letters?" 

_He speaks_ , JC thought. "Good. There are words I recognise, more and more each day. Joe says I am a quick study, but I feel slow." JC looked up. His smile was so wide he could scarcely see. Beside him, Chris sat. He had put on his breeches. "I look at my book." 

"Have you uncovered your secrets?" 

JC shook his head. "No. Though there are words I know now. I think my mother writes of a son. I see that word often. Son. Child and dead, too. That puzzles me." JC held his words for a moment. "I must be the son, yet I am alive. Unless I have dreamed this all." 

"I would think it would be more pleasant, if it was," Chris said quietly. 

"It is pleasant enough. I am very happy." 

"You are. You wear your joy on your face. I see the difference. You no longer swallow the sun with your eyes. You wear it, bright, in the gleam of your smile." Gently, Chris laid a hand over JC’s knee. He squeezed. "You will read that book sooner than you think, JC." 

"That is my hope," JC said. He licked over his lips. "May I show you something?" 

"If you wish," Chris replied. 

JC unfolded himself and crossed the room for his book. Quickly, he unwrapped it from the veil. Chris waited without word. JC climbed back onto the table. It creaked under their combined weight. For a moment, JC thought it would bend and break. Unsteadily, it shifted. 

JC plucked the square of parchment from the inner side of the cover. His shaky letters were stark against the pale paper. The ink had blotted messily. There were still stains on his fingers. He put it into Chris’s hand and said, "I see this word often, but I do not know it." 

Chris’s dark eyes flickered upwards. 

"I forgot an A. It goes there, after the E." He touched his finger to the skipped spot. 

Chris glanced down. His eyes slanted shut for an instant. 

"Is it terrible?" JC asked. Dread filled his belly, heavy like mud. 

"No," Chris said. "No. It is the very opposite of terrible." 

"Then tell me." 

Chris looked at him. His eyes had lightened. His whole face had lifted. The scowl that hugged the corners of his mouth had vanished. Softly, JC touched his hand. It was warm and dry, calloused from all the work he did. JC squeezed his fingers and smiled at him. 

"'Beautiful,'" Chris said. "The word is 'beautiful.'"


	30. Chapter 30

Fleur was a horse of much patience. JC appreciated it each time he slid unwillingly from Fleur’s back and landed heavily on the sand. It was as though Fleur was covered with ice. JC could not will his body to stay upon him. Justin sat on a nearby rock, laughing. 

"Most men would give up," Justin said. He scratched a hand over his dirty knee. 

"I am not most men," JC replied. It came out through the clench of his teeth. Justin hummed but held his tongue, and JC mounted again. His mind was awhirl from the lessons that day. The sounds had finally come together on his tongue, and he read a word he had never seen before. 

By nightfall, he had nearly managed a minute’s ride before teetering leftward. Justin caught his waist and heaved him up. With the elegance of a wave, he hoisted himself. Justin’s arms settled around JC’s waist. With a click, Fleur pranced along the arc of the ocean. 

"The farmers have removed their shirts," Justin said. 

JC looked up over the edge of earth. True to his word, there they were. Chris, Joe and Lance, though Joe appeared merely to stand around. He was big and clumsy; Chris had little patience for him as a farmer. More than once already, JC had seen Joe grab Chris and wrestle him until Chris’s face was no longer sour. 

"Chris looks at men," Justin said. His words had a cautious tone. Justin had mentioned before that he had noticed Chris. How he watched. JC had always turned away his comments, but Justin was fused with a deep stubbornness. "At you. He is handsome enough." 

"Very," JC agreed. That morning, Chris had brought him milk to drink, still warm. 

"I suppose he is even kind," Justin said, "if he likes your company." 

"You would like him if you two did speak. I do not know why he is so brusque to you," JC said. It was a half-truth. He suspected the reason behind it, but Chris had done his best. JC could not fault him for that. There were times he looked at Chris and Lance and felt a twinge in his belly. They shared an understanding of the world that was still too dark for JC to grasp. 

"You could bed him, if you tried." 

JC felt his face flush with heat. They had nearly, once. More and more, JC turned to his own hand for solace, in search of that same sensuous moment. It never strayed from his head. Behind him, Justin hugged his waist and chuckled lowly in JC’s ear. Justin would draw it out of him if JC tried to hold his tongue. 

"He was my husband," JC blurted. "We nearly did, but he saw what I was, before." 

For a long time, they were silent. JC wished he had not told him. 

"I did not mean to remind you," Justin said, finally. He pressed his face to JC’s back. 

"It makes me sad, but he has apologised, and I have forgiven him." He put his hands over Justin’s and squeezed them. "I give you my word. I would have said nothing, if I did not wish you to know. And it is all past. It no longer matters. " 

"But he looks. I have seen him look at you." 

"There is hurt in him, and I cannot understand it. Nothing can come of it until I do," JC admitted. It ached his heart to voice it aloud, but he had learned the truth could often cause the greatest pain. Justin squeezed his hips. Idly, JC leaned back. Fleur moved under him, always steady. Justin had that same unfailing strength in him. JC appreciated his friendship. 

"If Lance and I had not pledged our hearts. If I did not love him." 

"I know," JC said. 

They rode along in silence. Fleur snorted with every third step. It came in time like a heartbeat. Joe shouted a call for dinner, and Fleur followed it. Justin’s body stayed still behind him, warm and comforting. JC could feel the length of Justin’s manhood pushing into his back. His own throbbed heavy between his legs. 

At supper, they presented him with a sugared biscuit and a candle stuck into it. Puzzled, JC stared at it until Joe puffed his cheeks and mimicked a whistle of air. They waited until, finally, JC blew the flame out. They cheered him as he did it. 

"You are all mad," he said. He let them laugh, though his spirit grew heavy. 

Later, once the food had been eaten and the biscuit cut into fives, Chris sat next to him. Into JC’s ear, he whispered, "the cake is in celebration of your birthday. Joe baked it for you." He took a bite. "That is why it tastes so odd, though he meant well." 

JC nodded. It was often the littlest thing that reminded him of who he had been. He only knew summer’s end marked his birth because his mother had given him a new veil for each new year. If his brothers and sisters had birthdays, he did not know. JC would not have been invited. 

He sat with Chris and spoke for some time. Chris shared the stories of his day, which always brought a smile to JC’s lips. Since that afternoon Chris had shared his secret hurts, they talked more often. JC loved the lightness of Chris’s voice. Despite his claims, he sounded like no woman JC had ever met. If he had, JC would not have cared. 

"JC, might I speak with you a moment?" Joe called over the cackle of the fire. 

JC looked to Chris, who had caught his tongue mid-word. "I will return," JC said. 

"Aye." 

Joe walked behind the cottage. JC followed his path, the grass nipping at his bare toes. It was cool in the still of the night. Come morning, the world would be sprinkled with dew. JC hoped the sun would wake him early enough that he could lie in it and let it wash him. 

"Sit with me?" 

Joe patted to the spot of earth next to him. Knees first, JC fell into it. 

"Lance and I must leave. He to sell a few heads of his gaunt cattle, and I to get enough coin that he and Justin will last the winter," Joe said. His voice rumbled lowly, and JC found he had to strain to hear it. He leaned close as if it would quiet the steady roar of the ocean. 

"Lance knows nothing of the money," Joe added, and put a finger to his mouth. 

"I will not tell him." 

"Aye, I know. But the dilemma is this: either you or Justin must come with us. I have not the skills to steer cattle, and though Lance swears he got them here with little trouble, I know he lost a great many in his travel," Joe said. "We need an extra hand." 

Joe lifted his eyebrows. They nearly brushed the edge of his hair, but whatever they spoke, JC did not understand it. He tilted his head and raised his own brow. _Twice in one night_ , JC thought. He had thought the time was gone when he would be made to feel so stupid. 

"Chris must work the lands in our stead. He is the only one of us who knows them well enough to have a chance at success. Your choice is to stay with him or to travel. I cannot make the decision for you," Joe said. 

"How long?" 

"A month, perhaps more. After, for Christmastime, we will return to my father’s lands where I have a small house of my own, with one short stop in between. I hope to return no later than harvest, since I have no wish to travel during the harsh months of midwinter." Joe rubbed his hands together as if suddenly caught by a chill. 

"When do you leave?" 

"On the morrow," Joe said, "at sunrise. I have been told, by my dear friend Lance, that this choice is yours, not mine, to make." 

"You would have me go with you." 

"Aye," Joe said, "I would, but for selfish reasons. I want to trust Chris-" 

"Then do." JC took Joe’s hand and held it in his. There had been a time when Joe’s belief in Chris had been unfailing. It pained JC to know that so much had changed by his presence in their lives. "He is changed, as I am. I will stay here with him." 

"You are a braver man than I," Joe said. It came unwilling, like he was not at all pleased. 

"He is different, Joe. I can see it in him," JC insisted. He squeezed Joe’s hand and leaned into him, bending to catch his eye. When he had it, JC spoke again. "He was never unkind to me, not willingly. I know the difference, I swear to you. There are demons in him." 

"So many," Joe murmured. 

"Yes. But they lessen each day. We speak frequently. He draws laughter from my mouth, and I, from his," JC confessed. He had fond memories of late where he had to clutch his belly it ached so hard from happiness. Chris’s wit was sharp as a knife when he let it free. 

Joe turned to him. He clasped JC’s face in his hand and put his mouth to JC’s ear. His breath was warm like the glow of fire. "If you should run into trouble, take Fleur and ride in the direction of the rising sun. When you are in English territory, ask the way to Banbridge. My father will keep you until I arrive there in spring." 

"I will not leave," JC said. "There will be no reason." 

Joe’s guilt weighed heavy on his face, and he opened his mouth again. Gently, JC folded his hand over it and hushed him. He circled Joe’s shoulders. The strength rushed from Joe in one quiet gasp. They sat there a while until Joe straightened. Without word, he bowed his head and took his leave. JC followed once his belly had quelled its shaking. 

At sunrise, JC roused himself from his fitful sleep and followed the travellers outside. He kept a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He watched the ocean until Joe had harnessed the cart to Joseph the Third and Lance’s gelding, Oliver. Justin came to sit with him, dressed in his finest kilt. His knees, JC noticed, had been washed. 

"My thanks," Justin said quietly, "for opting to stay behind." 

JC smiled and tipped his head. 

Finally, they were packed. JC brushed the dirt from his breeches and went to offer goodbyes. Joe clasped him around the waist and lifted him from the ground. He offered no words. Warmly, JC embraced Lance then Justin, and wished them luck. JC pushed them at Chris, who stood to the side as if unwelcome. They shook hands, as men were wont to do. 

They stood together as the group disappeared from sight across the moor. The wind blew softly. JC hiked the blanket higher as a shiver took his body. Dew clung to his ankles and froze his feet. He and Chris said nothing. In his heart, JC knew there was no need.


	31. Chapter 31

Chris had been told to expect Justin’s company for the next month. Instead, he had been graced with JC, who seemed possessed of some other’s spirit. Each morning, JC followed him into the fields and forced his help upon Chris. Grim determination kept JC working. There was no other explanation for it. He was a twig of a man who knew nothing of hard labour. 

Finally, Chris said, "I can do this on my own." It had been a week. 

"Yes, I know," JC said. He did not stop for a breath as he pulled his hoe through the dirt. It barely grazed the land. Chris held his tongue between his teeth. "But if you do this on your own, you take twice as long, and then who will help me with my lessons?" 

With great reluctance, Chris conceded to the point. So he found himself in the fields with a shadow. It was pleasant enough. Whatever JC lacked in skill, he gained in enthusiasm. The land was lonely. Chris’s head, dark with memory. JC brightened it with his presence. 

"I enjoy these potatoes," JC said at dinner. He used Chris’s knife to peel the skin. 

"I should hope so. We have nothing else for the month," Chris replied. He had his knees to the fire as he stirred the pot. There were oats for breakfast and some salted meat but little else. Chris hoped to catch a rabbit or two. A month of potatoes turned his stomach. 

"Will you ever settle?" JC asked later. He had made a pouch with his shirt and carried the potatoes to the water. Carefully, Chris took them. Under the shadow, he could see the flatness of JC’s belly. The skin was sprinkled with the finest hair. Underneath, the slightest hint of muscle. _Not quite a twig_ , Chris thought. He nearly dropped their supper. 

"I have no land, and no money to buy it," Chris replied. 

"You are a true traveller," JC said, "like me." 

"My mother was before she married. My blood burns with it." 

JC’s lips twisted with his thoughts. "You had a family, then." 

"No. They would never recognise a bastard child," Chris replied. He dipped the wooden spoon into the bubbling water. Eyes on the flame, he stirred until he could see just a blur. "If my mother was smart, she would have chewed barberry bark and been done with it." 

"Is that a spell?" 

Chris looked over at him. "No," he said, "it is a way to destroy a child." 

"Well, then your mother is smart enough. I should think my world is better with you in it," JC replied. _He did not blink an eye_ , Chris thought. Joe had taught him that, or JC had absorbed it without knowing, like a cloth dropped in water. "I would be dead." 

Chris drew his lips into a line. 

"In spirit, at least. I nearly was when you found me. Then, I did not know, but when I look back, it is all I see," JC said. His long fingers picked at his breeches, his knees folded to his chest. Starving, no doubt. Chris’s own belly tightened with pangs of hunger. 

"So it is good that your mother did not take that potion," JC said. He touched Chris’s hand with his fingers. They were soft against the back of it. Chris looked at them. _Too big to be a woman’s_ , Chris thought. It grew harder each day to imagine how he had not known. 

"Joe has tainted your mind," Chris replied. 

"I also need help with my lessons," JC added. 

His grin was full and bright, and Chris laughed. Warmth spread up his arms into his face, where it bloomed. Through his fingers, the spoon dropped into the water. Chris would have reached in after it had JC not grabbed his wrist. JC laughed then, too. 

After supper, they sat by the fire, and JC read to him. Each word he stumbled on, Chris helped coax from his lips. Later, Chris read five pages from the Book of Genesis as JC followed. He kept Chris’s finger on the page long after Chris’s arm started to ache. 

"You should sing to me," JC murmured. He had his cheek leaned on Chris’s shoulder. Through his shirt, Chris could feel the warm wind of his breath. His eyes dipped with exhaustion, but still he smiled when Chris caught his look. "I know you can." 

"Someday." 

"You give your word?" 

"Aye," Chris said. 

"Aye," JC repeated. 

Chris read a while longer before, with a breath, JC’s body went lax. Chris caught him before he could tumble into flame. Into his arms, Chris lifted him. _A mere whisper of a man_ , Chris thought. Despite the length of his body, his weight seemed light as a bird’s feather. He carried JC to the cottage and put him to bed. There, Chris drew the blankets to his shoulders. The hair that tumbled into JC’s face, Chris pushed back. His fingers lingered, gently. 

"You will wake me," JC murmured, his voice low with sleep, muffled by the pillow. 

"Aye," Chris said. "I will wake you." 

He lifted a hand and tugged with just one finger through Chris’s hair. "Your word." 

"My word," Chris repeated a heartbeat later, but JC had already drifted into heavy sleep. 

Quietly, Chris undressed in the murky darkness. JC’s breath came in time like a song, soft and light. Chris fell asleep listening, his ears full. In his soul, he felt calm and as if he had been that way all his life.


	32. Chapter 32

Chris had spent the morning and afternoon listening to some of the tales JC knew by heart. His mind was a vast ocean of song and poetry. _He would_ _have been a bard in another life_ , Chris thought as he cleared the land. His hands ached from the rush of roots through his fingers. 

"I see a horse," JC said suddenly. He put a hand over his eyes and squinted. His other stayed on the hoe. It drove deeper into the earth than it had the days before. There was strength in him yet. "Two horses, and two men. They are dressed in strange garb." 

"Go to the cottage and put on your boots," Chris said, "and walk." 

On his knees, Chris continued working on the stubborn root. He pulled until it was nearly free. With his knife, he hacked at it until it lifted free from the dirt. He shook it. When he looked up again, the men were close enough to see. Still, he worked the land. 

JC returned with a canteen of water. Before standing, Chris pulled the blade from his own boots and tucked it into JC’s. He squeezed the back of his leg over before straightening himself. Chris did not speak but took a long drink. Water dripped down his throat. He touched the pendent. _Be brave_ , Chris thought. As if knowing, JC tipped his head. 

Highwaymen. Chris knew to see them once they were close. Their mismatched velvet clothing. The high breed of their stallions. The unmistakable cloak of poverty covering them regardless. They were far off their trail. _Desperate men then_ , Chris thought. They would rob them blind if given half the chance. 

"They are rogues, the two of them," Chris said. "If anything should happen to me." 

"Ride in the direction of the rising sun," JC replied. "I will." 

The uneasiness in his stomach quelled the surprise he felt at JC’s admission. Joe had likely warned him, then. Chris felt his belly turn. Joe’s faith had been hard to gain. His forgiveness, Chris suspected, was even more difficult. Still, he offered a good illusion. Chris had almost believed him after that night in the mud and beating rain. 

"Stranger," the dark-haired one said upon approach. His face was sharp, like JC’s, yet harsh in its line while JC’s was blunted. His dark eyes flittered about. _Surveying_ , Chris thought, _to see what he can steal_. "Will you help two weary travellers?" 

"What aid need you?" 

"Food and rest. Drink for our parched mouths. We have ridden a long way," he replied. Beneath, his horse skittered nervously. The man dug his heels into the beast to steady it. "We have no money to offer in return for your good Christian grace." 

"The good Catholic Lord will smile on you in heaven," the other said, "if you should lend your hand. I see you have no church or pastor in these barren lands, good Christian. I am a priest. I can perform mass for you and offer my ear for confession, should you need it." 

A golden cross hung around the fair-haired stranger’s neck. Across the rump of his horse an embroidered cloth was draped, threaded with purple and gold. Chris had seen such patterns often as a child. _Travelling ministers then_ , Chris thought. He did not trust them, but he could not, even on chance, turn away men of God. 

"We have food we can offer," JC said. It came fast from his mouth. Chris could feel JC moving like a wild horse tied in place. _Nervous and scared_ , Chris thought, _yet still too kind._ "And blankets for the night. Nothing is needed in return," he added. 

"Our thanks." The dark-haired one bowed his head. "God smiles on you." 

Chris took their horses to harness as JC lead them to the fireside. From the edge of his eyes, he watched them and JC. In his bones, Chris felt wary. They carried Catholic emblems, and the fair-haired man looked like the clergy had at St. Patrick’s, where he had lived. The crop of his hair, the solemn draw of his brow. Hair raised on his skin. 

Chris had not been to Catholic mass in a good many years. 

As JC passed bearing water, Chris put his hand against JC’s back, briefly. 

He whispered, "prepare dinner," then even lower, "and should you take pause to look around to see if Lance has armed himself, they will not notice. I will keep their attention on me." JC turned to him, eyes lowered. Chris touched his back once more. "Focus on the obvious hiding places," he said then pressed JC toward the cottage. 

The men were cousins from the south of the island. They introduced themselves as such. Chris did not ask their names, and they did not offer them, nor did Chris offer his own. He crouched by the ashen mess of the previous night’s flame and struck flint to ignite the dry grass. 

"No women live here," the dark-haired one said. He had stripped off his shirt and was washing with handfuls of water, splashing his neck and face. The other one, the priest, stared into the burgeoning fire, his eyes caught by the dance of the light. Soon the sun would dip, and the world would darken. 

"No. We live alone," Chris replied. He put another log into the fire and stoked the flame with a crooked stick. It bent with each push, but he forced it. The glow needed to brighten as though it was a sun. "He is my brother." 

The lie came effortlessly. JC had walked outside to gather milk. He moved like he always did, like a woman would, with delicate ease. All three watched as he crouched. His tangled hair fell in front of his face. With an arc of his hand, he pushed it back. His neck was a sliver of moonlight in the distance. 

"You are both Irish," the dark-haired one said, "Catholic." 

"Aye." He poked at the fire. The heat touched his eyes. "Native born." 

"Did the English steal your land?" He asked. 

Chris looked up. Chris knew the English has pushed the Irish from their rightful soil. They had taken the fruitful land for themselves and charged those who would not leave rents they could not afford. Chris knew all of this, but it meant very little for a man who had never had a chance at any of it. A bitter smile pulled at his lips, but he held it like he did his words. 

The priest eyed him and did not look away when Chris caught his stare. His golden cross glimmered in the firelight, bright against a pale chest. The other few boys who had come and gone from the church had worn such things around their necks. To Chris, salvation and God’s grace had been denied. No bastard child could enter into heaven, and he had been refused the chance to try. They had still made him learn the gospels and psalms, denying him food until he could recite them from memory, lashing him if he was too hungry to think. _My father_ , Chris thought. That was of whom this priest reminded him. 

JC came back with a pot and set it over the fire. Water splashed and wet his breeches. He left then returned again, cleaved potatoes held in the hammock of his shirt. He plopped each into the pot one by one. The strangers watched him. If they commented, Chris would take their tongues, but they said nothing. Still, Chris wished they would be on their way and leave them be. 

"Between his mattress and the wall," JC said lowly as he handed Chris a bowl with steaming potatoes and a cup of warm milk. Chris bowed his head in thanks. The exchange happened in a blink. The cousins, caught in their own idle chatter, paid no mind. 

The priest led them in the Lord’s Prayer before dinner. JC did not know the words. His mouth moved, but his lips formed nothing Chris recognised. Chris recited it loudly from his chest and shared the sound with him. If they noticed, again they said nothing. 

The dark-haired one spoke to JC directly. In return, JC offered him very little. Short strings of words, inquisitive looks. The only reaction came from his label as brother. Then, he slanted his head and glanced at Chris, but it was only a moment before it passed. 

"There is not a soul within one day’s ride in any direction," the priest said. If he had been speaking before Chris had not heard it. Chris could tell by the twist of JC’s hands in his lap that he had no desire to listen, but he nodded. _He has been raised to sit silent in the presence of others_ , Chris thought. It was hard to remember that JC had ever held his whip of a tongue. 

"There are wars being fought near Dublin. The English invade, again, and the Chieftains rally to fight them," the priest said. His voice was urgent, low. His hands extended like he expected JC to reach out and comfort him, but JC was still like stone. "They burned my parish, the Protestant heathens. Ash and cinders, nothing else is left of my life’s work." 

"Those English bastards forced themselves on my wife," the dark-haired one added. 

"Not all English are cruel," JC said. 

"Barbarity is bred in them. It takes death to drive it out." 

"Not all English are cruel," JC repeated, "and not all Irish are kind." His fingers were clenched into fists. 

"You are a sympathiser," the priest said. Disgust bled from his lips, caught in the twist of a frown. His hand pulled at the cross around his neck. In his chest, Chris could feel his own anger rising. Each flicker of light against the gold symbol pierced his head. 

"I simply have never met a vicious Englishmen, but I can assure you the same goes not for the Irish," JC said. His words came fast like the crack of a whip. The priest stirred in his seat, but his cousin calmed him, a hand folded round his elbow. "I mean no harm," JC added. 

"When all has been taken from you, we will see your opinions change." 

Violence rose in JC like an ocean storm. Chris caught his knee and held him down. Under his palm, JC shook with anger. _Loyal to a fault_ , Chris thought. He would make these strangers sleep outside; they would not step foot in Lance’s home. Chris finished his meal quickly, mouth close to the plate, his fingers covered in slickness from the butter. 

If they had been kinder, if Chris trusted them in the slightest, JC might have recited a fairytale or a poem. Perhaps, he would have sang for them. Chris, himself, could have shown them magic. Simple vanishing tricks, like a coin from a hand rediscovered in an ear. 

Instead, they sat by the fire and did not speak. Time was slow. Night was a time for reading in the dim light of the fire, the letters harsh against the dusky parchment. It was a time for aching eyes and halted words and the heat of JC’s skin pressed against his own. 

"The night grows late. My cousin and I are weary," the priest said, finally. 

"I shall bring you blankets," Chris replied. 

"Have you not enough beds?" The dark-haired one asked. A smirk played at his lips. Chris thought he saw it, caught in the shadows. If his eyes gleamed, Chris did not see. He turned away, to JC, in hopes he would make the decision, but he had stood already, clutching his belly. 

"I feel ill," he said. To the night’s mouth he was swallowed, his lanky frame stooped. 

"You are but strangers to me," Chris said, "and as you said, my brother and I live a day’s ride from any other soul. I protect my kin, and I would think you protect yours. My apologies, but the best I can offer are blankets and a fire. The night is clear of rain." 

They had their eyes on him, and if he did not think they would stab his back, he would have turned. Cold eyes, ones that had suffered and still did. Chris would feel pity for them if he had not been marked with the same heavy scars. Chris’s hate had never been so external. 

"We graciously accept your hospitality, good Christian. Our thanks," the priest said. 

Chris bowed his head then turned, letting his legs take him quickly back to the cottage. The door banged as he opened it, loud like a crack of thunder. For light, he kept it open, though it offered only the dimmest glow. He jumped then chastised himself. _Some man you are. You frighten yourself like a child_ , Chris thought, and hurried to the nearest bed. 

The glint of silver at the corner of his eye gave him warning even before the squeak of the closing door did. At once, the room was plunged into blackness. Chris lifted his arm over his face and felt the skin split under the edge of a blade. It was too dark to see the shadow that attacked, but the size of the man, the sheer height of him. It was not the priest. 

Chris reached for the bed, to grab whatever arms Lance stored, but the shadow grabbed his waist and pulled. They crashed together into the table, which had been handcrafted by Lance. It broke under their weight. The shock of the floor slowed nothing, least of all the roar of blood through Chris’s ears. In the dark, he could not fight what he could not see. 

"I have a knife to your cousin’s throat," JC said. 

"It is true," the priest replied. His voice was low in his throat as if he feared to speak. 

"I will kill him." 

The dark-haired stranger rolled off him. Chris darted quickly to the bed and grabbed the iron sword. It was heavy and old. He pushed the tip against the dark-haired one’s back, lightly. Without word, the man stepped forward. Chris led him outside at sword point. 

The horses stamped nervously in place. JC walked with the priest, one hand across his brow, the other with the knife at the man’s throat. He bled a dark line. One false move, and the priest was dead. The dark-haired one made no move until Chris said, "untie them." 

He did as told with shaking hands. 

"We are as poor as you, _good Christian_ ," Chris said, "and we have known pain like you, but you have tried to murder me in my own home. Tell me why I or my brother," he glanced at JC, "should not take your lives. Surely, our good Lord would not fault me." 

Neither man uttered a word. 

Chris looked to JC, who dipped his head. When he removed the knife, the priest lifted his hand to ebb the flow. Chris lowered his arms but kept his grip firm on the handle. They mounted and exchanged glances, but the madness in their eyes had left. Weariness settled in its place, and Chris himself felt exhaustion tug at him. It would be better to take their lives, should they ever return. 

"If we meet again, your lives are forfeit. Neither of us will hesitate," Chris said. 

"Neither of us will stop you," the priest said. 

"Get off my land." 

"May God protect you in these dangerous times," the priest replied. He untied a small leather pouch from his pack and tossed it to the ground. The rattle betrayed the coins inside. Chris turned his head, but the priest said, "we stole it, and we cannot give it back." 

"Go," Chris said. 

They rode off. The only sound was the shift of the ocean and the soft whinnying of the horses. Chris watched until the darkness consumed them. Gently, JC took him by the wrist. In his other hand, he gripped the satchel of coins. 

Slowly, they walked to the fireside. Chris’s legs shook like he had perched upon his horse for a fortnight. In the grass, Chris sat where JC led him. Warm blood dripped from the deep cut. He stuck his fingers in it and hissed through his teeth. Pain flickered behind his eyes. 

"Stop," JC said and knelt. He had gone to the cottage and retrieved a basin and two rags. Between his fingers, JC dipped then squeezed the wet cloth. The water that drizzled out bathed the wound. It stung, but Chris held his tongue. Instead, he watched JC’s unsteady hand. The other, Chris took with his own and held it. It was cold and clammy. 

"You were very brave," Chris said. 

"I do not feel brave," JC replied. With the edge of the cloth, he dabbed at the cut. If either of them knew alchemy, Chris knew it would be better, but the roots and powders Joe used were ones Chris did not understand and did not dare to touch. "He was going to kill you." 

"I will die someday." 

"But not soon. I have barely begun to learn your secrets," JC said. Tightly, he squeezed Chris’s fingers, and Chris smiled at him. _Those eyes_ , he thought. They had brought them to this point. If Chris had never seen them. Chris no longer had a memory of time before. 

"I thought you would kill him," Chris said. 

"I would have had he hurt you further. The anger in me. There are times I scarcely feel it, but this night." JC narrowed his eyes, and his lips twisted. He wet the cloth again and flooded the wound. "It was not something I wish to feel again. It was too big. It is always there, though." 

"You have every right." 

"I know." JC stuck his tongue between his lips. In the dim firelight, it was not nearly as pink as Chris knew it to be, nor did it look as warm as he knew it to feel. He hissed when JC pressed into the cut too hard. "Shh," he said, "I am nearly done. Does it hurt much?" 

"A little," Chris admitted. "You saved my life this evening." 

"You saved mine months ago. Now we are even," JC replied. His grin was nearly hidden by his hair, but Chris saw it. He pulled his injured arm from JC’s grip and touched a finger to the edge of JC’s smile. "Will you be still? You are dripping blood on my breeches." 

"I am covered in it." 

"Yes. But I only have this pair, and you have three. I should have to spend the morrow naked as they dry if you do not stop," JC said. If it was a threat, Chris thought it failed. Heat spread through Chris’s belly, and his smile, already huge, blossomed. JC’s eyes widened then he laughed, quiet but merry. 

Between them, it was unspoken, but Chris knew JC had understood it. What he had said without saying, the implication. Though his heart beat fast and his belly clenched uncomfortably, he had done it. Been kind to him in the way lovers might be. Flushed, Chris dropped his head. 

"You are very brave," JC said softly. 

Chris touched a careful finger to JC’s knuckle and traced it. 

"You are a good man, Chris Kilpatrick." 

Chris lifted his eyes. 

"And you have taught me to be one," JC said. 

"Oh, do not credit me." 

"With my manhood, I do. You and Joe, Justin and Lance. My womanhood, well, that was my own doing, and my mother," JC admitted. His eyes dimmed, though still he smiled. Chris squeezed his fingers. They had started to warm. No longer did they feel like ice. 

"Does it still hurt?" 

"If I think on it too long. There is an ache. I thought I would never be comfortable in this body once I knew, but somehow, I am. It is the time before that fades." JC tore a square of cloth into narrow strips. Chris held out his arm, careful of JC’s breeches. "I still wonder who I am." 

"Soon," Chris said. 

"Soon," JC echoed. He smiled then lowered his eyes. His fingers were deft and careful, and when Chris’s arm was bandaged, he folded his hand over it. The warmth could be felt through the cloth. It erased the pain. His hand no longer shook. "I think I could sleep." 

"Aye. Me too." 

JC dumped sand over the flame then covered it with the last of the water. He stretched his arms over his head. His mouth split with a yawn. The skin under his shirt was flat, and Chris looked at it, openly. When JC caught his look and smiled, Chris returned it. _Strange_ , Chris thought. He felt as if he had been born with bravery flowing through his veins. 

They walked side by side to the cabin. Chris was nearly dizzy with exhaustion. He let JC enter first then barred the door behind them. The table lay in splinters on the ground. JC pushed it into the corner with his boot then started to undress to the waist. 

"Would you share my bed?" JC asked without turning. "I do not think I can sleep alone." 

"If you wish," Chris said. 

"I do." 

Chris took off his own shirt. There were splashes of blood soaked into the light fabric. His arm ached dully, and he touched it. When JC held out his hand, he touched it instead. They settled on the straw-filled mattress together, with a hand span of space between them. 

"May I kiss you?" 

"You may," JC said. 

Chastely, Chris touched his lips to JC’s. They were warm and soft like he remembered. JC’s breath had that same heat, and Chris breathed it into his own mouth. They stayed like that for but a moment, and though Chris opened and JC did the same, they merely shared air. Never before had Chris felt a kiss such as that one. When he pulled back, his face had flushed. 

JC fitted himself against Chris’s chest, so close that Chris had to drape an arm over his back. JC’s face settled under his chin. His hair, far too long, tickled at Chris’s nose. Chris wrinkled the bridge of it. JC laughed lowly, and they said nothing more. Sleep came quickly.


	33. Chapter 33

They had spent the afternoon lying outside, sun on their faces. Beneath them, the grass was plush and cool. Chris had woken to aches all over his body, and while JC followed him as he limped into the field to work, JC knew he would not be able to lift a hoe. There were bruises from when he and the dark stranger struggled. Chris had not put on his shirt quickly enough. 

"I feel like an old man," Chris finally said. He had lasted the morning. 

"Yes. And you look like one," JC said. He grinned as he said it then laughed when Chris rolled his eyes. JC offered an arm, and they moved slowly together to a patch of flat land. Lance’s property was uneven and rocky; sand was hidden under the thick grass. In some places, though, it seemed like the richest land in the world. JC had discovered most of them already. 

"I shall never move again," Chris mumbled. He had sprawled on his back, loose and open. JC touched a hand to Chris’s belly and laughed at him. Chris’s fingers circled his wrist and held it. The warmth climbed up JC’s arm like a vine. They stayed like that a while. 

JC walked that road cautiously. Chris, and what he seemed to want. They had kissed a little. It had not felt like it did before. There was no desperation, no fear. It was softer, gentler, like a warm wind ruffling his hair as a kiss from the ocean. Chris still hesitated, caught in moments where he looked like his thoughts had stolen him for good. Those times, JC merely smiled at him. It always brought a look of recognition back to his eyes. 

JC read to Chris from Joe’s bible. The Book of Genesis fascinated him. He had never heard it before, and it was a wonderful story. JC had told Chris that, and he looked at him strangely. JC, for a moment, thought to apologise, but he could not muster the words. 

He did not believe in it, this book, like Chris did. His mother had never told him anything save for the fact that a god existed who watched over JC when no other would. To JC, it had seemed like a lie at the time, but she believed it, so he also did. _Perhaps_ , JC thought, _this god has sent Chris to me._ JC liked that idea. It seemed romantic, even if it troubled Chris. 

"Stop that," Chris said, batting at his arm. 

JC stopped reading and looked down at him. 

"Your chin." Chris gestured. His head had been lifted from the grass, and he had a bothered look on his face. "From here, I can see the redness. Scratching at it will only make it itch, and then you will get an infection." Chris’s own arm, JC knew, was sore and irritated. 

"I do not know how you can stand it," JC replied. He had not noticed his hand, but now that he did, he could not help but to drag his fingers over the sprout of prickly hair. It grew more and more each day, it seemed. JC thought Chris looked handsome in a beard, but he certainly did not want one of his own. "I wish I was like Lance or Justin." JC rubbed a little more. 

"They have beards," Chris said. "Or Lance, at the very least, does. The Scotsman-" 

JC poked at Chris’s belly. "Be kind." 

"Justin," Chris said, "is still too young to have a full one. You can shave it off." 

"Please," JC replied quickly. He grabbed Chris’s hand. Holding Chris’s fingers, JC rubbed them over his chin. If he could not scratch his whiskers, Chris could. Though they both worked the land, Chris bit his nails too low to keep dirt in them. "You must show me." 

"Must I?" Chris asked. He sounded amused, though it did not keep his fingers from scrabbling over JC’s chin. JC leaned into him and wet his lips with his tongue. When Chris’s fingers stilled then slid over his neck, JC let himself be quickly kissed. "I will help." 

JC sat on Chris when he tried to stand, perched across his knees. When Chris had confessed the secret, he gathered the water basin, Chris’s knife and his own bar of lavender soap. Carefully, he walked it all to Chris, whose eyes twinkled with merriment. JC sat where Chris pointed, kneeling before him, chin already lifted. 

"Do not speak," Chris warned before he pulled the edge of the knife over JC’s skin. JC shivered and held his tongue. It was dangerous to have a knife so close to his throat. If it slipped a breadth, it would cut him. Instead of sparking terror in him, it heightened JC’s excitement. 

The spurt of hair was small, so it was quickly gone. When JC rubbed the tips of his fingers over his chin, the skin felt soft and raw. It would grow back, he knew, but so long as Chris possessed a knife, JC’s chin would stay smooth. 

"Will you also cut my hair?" JC asked. It came quietly, yet before he could swallow it. 

Chris looked away. 

"It is too long," JC said quickly. He moved his fingers to Chris’s jaw, into the soft spaces below his ears. "It gets in my soup when I lean to slurp at it, and I do not mean by much. Just a little. It is." JC meant to say big as his curls did not tangle like Justin’s into thick tendrils, but Chris dipped his head. It was a nod. "You know that I hold no ill toward you for that." 

"You could," Chris said. 

"But I do not," JC said. His kissed Chris’s lips. They were dry, so he licked at them a little until Chris’s mouth lifted at the corners. "I have hated one man in my life, and it has never been you. You do me no intentional harm. Anything comes from the fear inside you. I know." 

"My fear nearly took your life," Chris said. "Joe told me." He fitted his hand against JC’s throat, the hammock of skin between thumb and forefinger warm at the base of it. JC breathed deeply and again, lifted his chin. "About the river. I did not realise you had. That you had tried that." 

"Despair fogged my brain for a moment. That is all." 

"I will teach you to swim," Chris said. 

"And I will learn," JC promised. With one hand, he wished to thump Chris upside the head. With the other, he wished only to soothe his worried brow. "And you will stop offering apologies for any wrong you think you have caused. You were the first person to offer me the truth. It was not one I expected, but very few truths are. Is that not a truth unto itself?" 

"Perhaps," Chris admitted. 

"Then please. Cut my hair." 

Still, Chris seemed unwilling. His mouth twisted in a frown. His eyes seemed helpless. "It will be horribly uneven," he said, finally. He held out his hands, and JC fitted his palms against them. "Look at mine. I cut my own. It is like a cow gnawed it. A cow drunk on mead." 

JC looked at him. His hair was thick and dark like night. It was slightly crooked, but it twisted like snakes so wildly over his shoulders that it was hardly noticeable. If Chris had ever willingly taken a comb to his head, it would have surprised JC. Wild, he looked; handsome, too. 

Gently, JC touched his fingers to Chris’s brow and brushed away errant wisps of black hair. He brushed his lips against Chris’s temples, one then the other. Under his hands, Chris stayed calm, willing. How strange it was that he submitted so easily. It had been a battle once. 

"You are so changed," JC whispered. His chest ached with sadness. 

Chris’s eyes, gold like tree sap, lifted. "For the better, I hope?" 

"I think so." 

"But you are unsure." His voice quaked unsteadily. 

"You understand my caution?" JC asked. He moved his hands to Chris’s shoulders, keeping Chris firm in his grasp. JC hooked a finger into the line of leather rope around his neck. When he pulled, the pendent appeared between the split in Chris’s shirt. "I want so much." 

"Aye," Chris said. "I have never _desired_ in my life, not like Joe, not like your ballads of romance and epic love. My body. There was a time I thought it dead. I was told. I believed." He bowed his head. His face pressed against JC’s chest. "I have to tell you of my father." 

"Tell me anything you wish," JC said. He stroked his fingers over Chris’s hair, his neck. 

"That church. Where my mother left me. St. Patrick’s. It was not random. I remember the night she did. We were so hungry. Her father would not give me food; he had never wanted me to live. Blamed me, for ruining her life. Though I had never understood why, I knew I had." 

Chris’s breath came in ragged gasps. "Be calm," JC said and kissed the crown of his head. 

"I would have died. There was no food for anyone. She told me to walk to the door and knock upon it. I was a child, but I knew. That was not the worst of it." Chris took a huge, heaving gulp. JC put a hand in his hair. "There were three priests who tended the parish. Two young ones; they were there that night. And another, an older cleric set to become a bishop, who I did not meet till later. I did not truly understand until I was nearly a man that he was my father." 

"Oh, Chris," JC said, but nothing more came. Not a whisper, not a word. Only silence. 

"Joe guessed, but I have never. This is the first time I have heard myself say it. It is better that I am thought to have no father than to have the one I do," Chris said. He had his hands firm around JC’s waist, one on either side. It did not hurt. It was merely tight, like terror forbade him from letting go even slightly. "It was not a willing coupling. My mother tried to explain it once, when her husband had beaten me nearly to death. An apology, it seemed, for my life. Like she had never wished for me to be born either." 

On that, his voice hitched and was swallowed by a soft sound. _He cries_ , JC thought, and held him within the circle of his arms. JC could remember anger and fear, frustration and sorrow but had he ever seen Chris shed a tear for any of it? Had he ever himself dared? JC had no memories of it. Chris did not seem the type. Chris had said, once, that men did not cry, and he had believed it. If the sorrow was deep, where was the harm in it? 

JC flattened his palm against the back of Chris’s head and held him to his breast. The tears flowed like an endless river and wet his shirt. JC did not know how to right the injustices done to Chris, but he did not feel helpless either. JC knew Chris only wished to remedy JC’s own inequities. If there were answers they would find them together.

 _If he will let me_ , JC thought. Again, he pressed a lingering kiss into Chris’s hair. His fingers tightened. How he wanted to protect this man with all he had. How he wanted to love him, as much with his heart as with his body. JC had known it all upon first glance of this terrible thief, who had given JC the food he had meant to steal. 

"You know I love you?" JC whispered. "You know that I have always loved you?" 

"That moment in the tent," Chris said, softly, "when I saw your eyes. I knew they were blue, though the night had stolen their colour. I was captivated. _Still_ , I am enchanted by them." JC looked up. Chris’s eyes were wetly red. "You told me you were ugly, and you were unlucky." 

"You believed neither." JC smiled. "Your new life started then." 

"Is it that simple?" 

"Yes," JC said and kissed his mouth. It tasted of tears. JC bathed clean the skin with his tongue. He moved over Chris’s eyelids and felt them flutter like wings against his lips. Again, he suckled Chris’s mouth, the dry arc of his lips. JC brought it between his own. 

"And still," JC whispered. They parted only a breadth before they kissed again. Chris opened to him, helplessly wanting. JC swept his tongue inside and licked over the twin that greeted. It took all his strength to offer the remainder of his words. "You must cut my hair." 

"First, supper." 

Slowly, they walked to the fireside. Chris ambled down as if a horse had sat on him. JC stayed with him a moment then went inside to gather food. They ate a bit of the meat and shared a glass of bonyclabber. It was sour enough to curl JC’s toes. When he choked, Chris rubbed his back until his lungs cleared. He smiled at him and kissed his milk-wet lips. 

After, JC knelt before Chris, his knees parted. JC handed him his knife. Its silver arc caught the firelight and reflected line of white light across Chris’s face. With his thumb, he traced the slope of Chris’s nose, his mouth, his cheek. Warm under his touch, JC could not stop. 

"My hair," JC said, and pulled his fingers into his lap. They itched to map Chris’s face. 

Chris slid from the round of wood he sat upon and came to rest on his knees between JC’s open thighs. Chris seemed young suddenly, his body much smaller than JC’s own yet undeniably masculine. Tight with hard-earned muscles, cut like rock. _Beautiful_ , JC thought. 

"Chris," JC said. He stretched his neck, offering his hair. 

But still, Chris merely looked at him until, finally, Chris drove the blade he held into the earth. It was so sudden that JC instinctively bent from it, as if afraid when he felt only surprise. When he parted his lips to speak, Chris laid a calloused finger across them. JC held his words. 

The tips of Chris’s fingers were rough like sand. They sparked no pain, but there was an unevenness to them that caught JC’s skin and roused it into a shiver. Chris’s fingers trailed downwards then up again, walking the line of skin below JC’s ear. JC dared not to speak. 

The touch was gentle, ghosting so slight over his skin they barely touched. Up and down, then danced the same again. Already, the path they marked felt rubbed raw. Helpless to stop him, JC merely braced his hands in the grass, the full of his weight borne upon his arms. _He barely touches me_ , JC thought, _yet I feel marked by it_. And he could not look away. 

Over his throat, then, and into the dip of skin at the base. There, the edge of Chris’s finger traced again. Rough but gentle. _What does he_ _seek_? Chris’s hands moved so surely. _Yet cautious too_ , JC thought, _as if he is conflicted_ , _as if_ _he is ever anything else_. When his fingers skirted under the edge of JC’s shirt, JC caught his breath. The full of his hand cupped the round of JC’s shoulder. It was warm like the summer sun and just as welcome. 

Downwards, Chris slid his hand. There it palmed, flat against JC’s chest and so wonderfully hot. JC wondered if, when he looked later, he would see the mark of Chris’s fingers on his breast. _He has forever touched my heart_ , JC thought, _I know already his hand is there_. His nipples had hardened into pebbles. When Chris rubbed them, JC felt his shameless hips roll forward. They had lifted without permission so his buttocks rested on Chris’s knees. JC had not even noticed his body’s betrayal. Chris had not stopped him nor had he pushed JC away. 

_Cruel_ , JC thought, and pinched his eyes shut. Such teasing. He could not hide his desire from Chris. He wore it like he wore his smile: freely, openly. JC’s skin felt painted with fever. Beneath his breeches, his manhood lay stiff, trapped between fabric and flesh. Each press of Chris’s hand against his heart sent shocks of pleasure all through him. 

When the hand left, JC opened his eyes dazedly. He would excuse himself and run quickly to the rocks. But when he thought to move, he could not. Chris’s hand had set to work at the laces on his shirt. That daring hand loosened them and pushed the cloth from his shoulders. 

There, Chris touched his breast with both hands then trailed down. JC’s arms were caught in his sleeves. He dared not move at all. JC arched back until his belly was taut. Chris kept his palms flat against it then pushed up once more. His fingers plucked at JC’s nipples then bowed under the curve of JC’s arms before they yet again turned downwards. It was like the lap of the ocean, methodical yet beautiful. With his eyes wide, JC watched each trip of Chris’s hands yet scarcely moved at all. _A dream,_ JC thought, _surely this is a most wonderful dream_. 

Chris tugged at his shirt, but JC’s arms were so tangled it would not move. _He has me ensnared,_ JCthought, and smiled so large he could scarcely see at all. Yet still, when Chris pulled on his shirt, JC looked at him. _His eyes_ , JC thought. They were aflame with desire. 

From the sheath of earth, Chris pulled his knife. _Long and thick_ , JC thought, and dug his hands deeper into the grass. His hips rolled wantonly over Chris’s knees. The rub of his breeches sparked the deepest pleasure, and it was all he could do to hold his body still. Chris hooked his blade at the split of his shirt and pulled sharply downwards. The cloth split and ghosted down JC’s arms like a whisper. He was left naked. 

Chris’s hands moved over and around him. They nestled at the small of his back then circled to his belly. They grasped his waist and lifted him until he settled completely on Chris’s thighs. _I can feel the strength in them_ , JC thought. Chris’s hands moved up his body’s centre then down the soft skin of his sides. Shamelessly, they cupped his hips and dug deep. 

There was not a spot of skin that Chris did not touch, not a square of flesh left to waste. The blades of his shoulders, the curve of his spine, the hollow of his belly. All of it, Chris worshipped with his hands. JC had never felt such pleasure nor had he ever felt so beautiful. 

When Chris traced a finger where his belly met his breeches, JC felt heat spring to his eyes. Chris edged a finger under the cloth and all sureness rushed from him. _I can feel the difference in his touch_ , JC thought, but when he sought to move away, Chris held him with the hook of his daring finger. That same finger loosened his laces and opened them. 

"My," JC said, but could not say the word. It poked out already, shamelessly swollen and wet at the tip. If Chris did not know what it was, there was no hope for him. Still, abashment prickled at JC’s skin. He wiggled uncomfortably to hide it. _Too much_ , he thought, _I ask too much._

Yet Chris’s hand stayed where it rested. It spread flat against the skin of JC’s lower belly. Clear of his manhood, which wept for attention, but brazenly daring still. The dark, coarse hair that led the path to his desire seemed black as pitch against his flesh. Chris stroked it with his thumb. He ruffled it so it pointed in all directions. 

From beneath his breeches, his manhood crawled. JC wished to push it down where it could not beg so wantonly for attention. He moved his arm then paused midway. Chris had lifted his other hand, and it came to settle between JC’s legs. JC’s manhood fit perfectly into the shallow curve of his palm. His legs shook with pleasure. JC closed his eyes. 

"Oh," JC said if only to ensure it continued. Breath caught in his throat, and his back bowed further. Into the dirt, his fingers burrowed like worms. If he could never have anything else from Chris, this would be enough. The intimacy heated JC’s skin. Though Chris merely held him, pleasure came fast like a flash of light through the sky and soaked his britches. 

"You," Chris said. He took his hand back, and JC slithered from his lap, delirious with love. "You came off from only my touch. I did not." Chris held his hand to his breast. His voice was wet with emotion. JC could not look at him. His body ached with feeling. His mind spun in dizzy circles. JC could not seem to speak. "Are you well?" 

JC wrestled with his breath until it steadied. When his heart slowed, he asked, "are you?" 

"I have not been smitten by God," Chris said. 

That was not what JC had meant, but he knew to Chris it was important. It was true. Nothing had changed. The ocean still lapped at the sand; the wind still blew across the moors. In the field, the horses still grazed, unknowing and healthy. It was simply them who had altered, and it was only in the subtlest, the most personal of manners. 

"Do you want my hand?" JC asked, quietly. Chris was stiff inside his britches. 

"No," Chris said. It came too fast, and JC’s heart fell. As if he knew, Chris reached out for his wrist and held it tight. "But your company, JC, if you will." Softly, he kissed at JC’s dry lips. "I would truly like your company this night. As much as you can offer me." 

"I could read to you," JC said. "We left the chapter mid-verse. I remember exactly." 

"I will get the book," Chris said, "and you should wash. You can borrow my breeches," he added with an impish twinkle to his eyes. His voice was still unsteady, but if he could tease so kindly, then perhaps no damage had been done to Chris’s soul. "You are a beautiful mess." 

JC felt his face heat, but he could not stop his mouth from splitting into a grin. To JC’s face, Chris touched the same hand that had brought pleasure and cupped his cheek. At Chris’s wrist, JC pressed a dozen desperate kisses. When Chris smiled at him, JC knew all was truly fine.


	34. Chapter 34

They had worked all morning in the drizzling fog. JC’s clothes clung as if he had bathed in them. The earth was loose and easy to hoe, but the chill had caught his fingers. They were so close to the end that he had held his tongue for hours. When the hoe slipped from his hands, it seemed the proper time to confess his aches. "I cannot feel my hands," JC admitted. 

"You must tell me these things," Chris replied, but he let his own tool drop. Chris took JC’s fingers between his palms and rubbed. Though they were just as cold as his, JC felt his hands warm. They heated more when Chris lifted one to his mouth and sucked the fingers between his lips. 

"You rogue," JC said. Chris chomped at his knuckles. Laughing, JC pulled his hand away and wove their fingers together. It had been days since that night by the fire, yet whenever they touched, JC could think of nothing else. His kisses were rife with desperation. Chris had not touched his manhood since, but often, Chris’s hands would crawl under cloth and stroke his chest or his belly or back. JC would do the same when he could. Chris was wonderful to touch. 

In the cottage, JC took off his wet shirt. Back turned to him, Chris did the same. 

Chris had cut his only shirt and had offered to fix it. Politely, JC had declined. He knew Chris’s skill when it came to women’s work. If Chris could not make a stew, he could not stitch a shirt. Still, so distracted JC was by Chris’s kisses along his neck as he tried to stitch that the line of cloth was uneven and open. It looked like a man had sewed it. 

Chris had still not cut JC’s hair, but he could scarcely keep his fingers from it. They tangled in the curls and brushed them from his face while he read. Chris often lifted his locks from the base of his neck to kiss the skin there. JC was no longer in a hurry to see them gone. 

JC took off his breeches then grabbed for a sheet. He wrapped it around his waist like Justin had with his kilt then hung his sopping clothes over a chair. Chris dropped his own on the ground. It was not until JC had stared for a minute that he bent and hung them to dry. 

Lance had a stove they had not used, since it was summer and the cottage was already warm. Still, JC’s belly ached with hunger, and he wanted something warmed. Chris lit the flame for him. They had potato stew, a few pieces of salted beef mixed into it. 

"Potatoes again," Chris said. 

Solemnly, JC nodded. Chris had been right when he said they would quickly be sick of them. Still, it did not taste bad, and it filled their bellies well. After, JC made them some tea with leaves he found in Lance’s cupboard and added a splash of whiskey from the bottle he discovered in the same place. They sipped the steaming drink in silence. 

"It is like we are the only men left in the world," JC said when his cup was dry. 

"Aye." Chris glanced at him. "Not so bad if we were." 

"No," JC agreed and smiled at his hands. The skin on his face felt hot. It always seemed to heat when Chris looked at him like he did. JC was careful not to be blinded by lust. Once already he had been, and they had both been hurt by it. There was a desire in Chris’s eyes not driven by temptation or desperation. _Only love_ , JC thought. He believed it as much as he dared. 

"Will the others return soon?" 

JC had let time run from him. It seemed forever since they had left. He wondered about them and hoped their journey had been successful. Lance and Justin deserved to feel safe in their future. All men did and women, too. Kelly and the happy babe Brianna; little Marie with her doll. 

"Two weeks, perhaps three. Not too soon," Chris said. He had pulled the blankets over his naked shoulders. He shivered under them, his wet hair stuck to his neck. With a quick hand, JC pulled the knotted locks from his skin. "My thanks." Chris bowed his head. 

"You are very handsome," JC blurted out. 

"You have not seen enough men." He said it smiling. 

"My sisters’s husbands. They were handsome enough. I was jealous of them when they married, but when we were wed, I was smug. I had married the most handsome man of all," JC said in a clumsy rush. It had seemed a good idea in his head until Chris turned from him. 

"Should I not mention it?" JC asked quietly. 

"It is a part of your life as much as it is a part of mine. It simply made me thoughtful of that night. Your father had not been as willing to give you up as you might think," Chris replied. He twisted back. His eyes were calm if also a little sad. "We fought over it." 

JC huffed an angry breath. His father had meant him to live like that for the whole of his life. _They treated me like an animal_ , JC thought, _and an unwanted one at that_. It shocked him to realise how much hate he felt toward his father. Chris and he had much in common, then. 

"He played me for a fool, as if I would not notice when we tumbled into bed. Of course, he thought we would never tumble at all. ‘You would be better with a whore,’ he said. So adamant in my demand that I wanted you, he offered a sister of yours instead, Mary." 

"He was so cruel to me," JC said. 

"Aye. I know. I would have stolen you, had he not willingly given me your hand. If Joe had not been able to offer coin as bribery, and he gladly did, the two of us would have plucked you from that life regardless," Chris said. "You did not belong there." 

JC felt his eyes moisten, and when Chris arched an eyebrow, he smiled wetly at him. Still, he could not speak. JC wanted to dot Chris’s face with kisses, to hold him until his arms ached, to be with him forever. His heart swelled with love for this man, and love stole his voice. 

"You were wanted. There was never a moment when you were not, how ever I did react." 

"I was not what you expected," JC said. 

"But you were what I wished," Chris replied. Not once did his voice waver. "When I saw that cock between your legs, it was as if all my dreams, all my nightmares, had at once come true. I look at you now and know I was blind. I often was in the presence of a beautiful man." 

JC took Chris’s hands and pressed them to his breast. His heart raced like a herd of horses. He was still so afraid that Chris would slip back to his fears. That he was not as strong as JC believed, as Joe hoped. It seemed a cruel taunt, to be so close yet still so unsure. 

"Would you like to read a while?" Chris asked when JC still had not replied. 

"Yes," JC replied. Emotion choked his throat. They kissed once. It was a long, lingering kiss that stuck to JC’s lips even when they parted. He clumsily dropped the bible when he grabbed it. It hit the floor like a rock, and he looked at Chris, who laughed kindly at him. 

Chris read a while. JC stayed close to him, head tilted against Chris’s shoulder so he could see the words. JC also liked the song of Chris’s voice so near to his ear. It was high like a woman’s, yet the heaviness to it was undeniably masculine. JC had yet been unable to convince Chris to sing, though he tried daily by singing each morning while they worked the earth. 

"Now you," Chris said. He shifted the book to JC’s lap. "If you have trouble." 

"Ask," JC said. "I know." 

They had finished Genesis and were close to halfway through Exodus. Chris’s God and, JC supposed, his as well seemed a wrathful one. Chris assured him that last half of the book was not so cruel, though he did not excuse the Old Testament. Upon reading, JC understood why Chris had been so afraid. If he had been told these stories as a child, he would never have sinned. 

_Or not had so good a time doing it_ , JC thought, and pressed his hot cheek against Chris’s shoulder where the blanket had slipped. He leaned for a kiss, but Chris shook his head. Chris had troubles with it when the book was open. JC held no ill against for that. 

Joe had taught him a way to make words from sounds, yet JC was not good with it. The stuttered letters never formed a word he recognised, and once he was told which word he sought, he felt as dumb as an ox. Always so obvious, yet his brain refused to listen to his ears. 

"Be calm," Chris had said. "You will learn nothing if you force it." 

JC feared he would learn nothing at all. But still, he read each day, and he supposed it got easier. His hands itched to unveil the book of secrets. He had finally buried it beneath his dresses as if he could forget it was there. Reading it without understanding only frustrated him. 

When he stumbled yet again, he thought to hit his head against the stone wall. The word hung to his lips, heavy like mud. JC repeated, "And Moses said to Joess--" then stopped again. He closed his eyes. He thought only to gather his resolve, but there was a sudden flickering of remembrance, deep in his head. He had seen the word before. "Joesh-" 

"You need only ask," Chris said. He knew better than to offer a word uninvited. 

"What good is it to ask if I cannot remember what you say? My head is like a leaky bucket," JC said. Frustration coiled in his belly. He felt tired to his bones, yet it was only midday. Eyes closed, he hid his face in Chris’s neck. "There are times when it just aches." 

Chris took his hand and squeezed. 

"Oh, my apologies," JC said. He lifted his head and put a hand against his brow. Shame for his weakness replaced the dull pain. There were men much older than him who had never read a word. His father had been one of them, and his brothers. Determined, he lifted the book. 

"You have not seen that name before," Chris said. "Not since we have read together." 

JC looked at it again. _A name_. In his belly, he knew it suddenly. Not the sound of, but where it had come from. Like a freed animal, he sprung from the bed where they sat and crossed the room in three long glides. His blanket fell from his hips, so he grabbed at it. _So stupid_ , JC thought.JC dug through his dresses until his fingers skidded across the leather cover. 

"Here," JC said. With one hand, he held the book. With the other, the blanket. It dropped completely when he opened the book, but he scarcely noticed. "Here," JC repeated. His finger rested on the one word that graced the first page. "You know what it says." 

"I do," Chris said. 

"Chris, tell me." JC took his hand and pressed it to his mouth. His heart jumped against his chest. Each kiss of his lips over Chris’s knuckles calmed it, but it had already made him dizzy. "Please. I could not guess if I tried. My mind races. You said a name." 

"Joshua," Chris said. With his hand that was free, he touched JC’s cheek. "Is it you?" 

"It must be," JC murmured. Joshua. It did not seem like him, though the sound of it was familiar. _A memory blocked by sorrow_ , he thought. "That night," he said. His pinched his eyes closed. "I stayed with her until death. She would allow no other near her. When she passed, she said only two things. ‘I love you,’ then, ‘Joshua.’ She had been so ill. I thought it nonsense." 

"How were you to know?" 

"I wish I had. I wish she had told me then, so I did not have to walk this journey now," JC said. He rubbed at his eyes with his fingers and brought away tears. They clung to the tips like the ocean’s tears. Chris mouthed the salt from them. 

Desperately, JC coiled his arms around his neck and kissed him. The whole of his body shivered. Chris lifted the edge of his blanket and brought JC under it. JC felt his eyes widen. Chris’s skin was damply warm. His thigh, thick between JC’s legs. JC’s manhood stiffened. 

"Do you wish me to call you Joshua?" Chris asked. 

"No," JC said. It came effortlessly to his lips. "It does not feel like me yet." 

"Someday." 

"I will tell you when," JC said. He pulled his arms from Chris’s neck and stole them beneath the blanket. There, he squeezed until Chris squeaked. JC kissed his throat, his mouth, his shoulder. "I have a name," JC whispered into his ear, "I have finally discovered a secret. Two, if you count your body bare against mine." Gently, JC rocked against him. 

"Your cock pokes at my belly," Chris said. 

_Half teasing_ , JC thought, _and half shocked_. 

"And mine, at your hip." 

Chris pulled the arm that had him by the waist so JC pressed flush against him. He nearly spilled backward when Chris leaned forward, but the hand at the small of his back kept him close. With two flicks of his wrist, Chris first tossed the bible then the book of secrets to the table, which still laid in pieces in the corner. Both landed heavily. "Do you feel it?" 

"I do," JC said. It was there, hard-pressed to his hip. JC had seen it soft in the thatch of black as pitch hair but never had he seen it filled with desire. JC shook with need for that intimate and secret part Chris had kept so guarded. "Has any man felt it before?" 

"No one," Chris said. JC noticed only then the tightness in Chris’s body. _Brave man_ , JC thought, but half expected to be dropped to the floor. Instead, Chris took JC’s hand and put it on him, around him. JC held it in his fingers and dared not squeeze. 

"I am terrified," Chris murmured. Who exactly he spoke to, JC did not know, but little did it matter. It seemed a passing thought as Chris’s own fingers snaked between them and coiled around JC’s manhood. It felt so much better without his breeches. 

"May I kiss you?" JC asked. His voice hitched on the final word. 

"Aye. You may kiss me all you wish," Chris said. His mouth moved wetly over JC’s shoulder, kissing and licking at his flesh. The hand around JC’s waist moved him closer and nearly drove all things from JC’s mind. _Save for one_ , JC thought, and felt himself flush. 

When JC pulled at the blanket, Chris let it fall. Bared, he was even more beautiful. His belly rippled with strength. The finest dark hairs covered him from breast to hip. JC put his mouth to each nipple and suckled till he felt Chris’s back arch under him. Lightly, he bit at them. 

"You are incorrigible," Chris murmured. His lifted his hips to let the blanket fall free. 

Desire dizzied JC’s head. Never had even the thought of a woman roused in him what he felt when he gazed upon Chris. No woman’s body would, of that JC was sure. A man was made for him, for his hands and his mouth. They wished to touch nothing else, taste nothing else. 

_And the love I feel for him_ , JC thought. It warmed him like sunshine and threatened him worse than the sharpest of swords ever could. He laid his body over Chris. The heat that came from Chris lapped at his skin like the ocean did his ankles. He stayed there only a moment. 

JC rubbed his cheek against Chris’s belly where the skin was soft and moist. Nerves wracked at him, but grim determination had settled in the pit of his belly. It seemed an easy idea, to take the tip of Chris’s manhood between his lips, but he was scared to do it wrongly. Justin had told him about the ways to bring a man pleasure. Actions were not as easy as words. 

"Whores do that," Chris said when first it touched JC’s lips. Hard, he pushed JC away. 

_So close_ , JC thought. With his tongue, he licked at the bitterness that one trace had left. 

"Whores do that," Chris repeated. He kept one hand firm on JC’s shoulder. 

"Lance does that, and Justin. I saw them, once, and Justin told me, too." 

"It is wicked," Chris said. Still, his cock stayed filled against his belly. Harder, it seemed, than it had been before. The tip was wet and glistening, leaking his juices. JC’s tongue ached to taste it once more; he wet his lips. Chris’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. 

"Please," JC said though he had meant to argue. It seemed not the time to demand it. Instead, JC touched Chris’s pale hip then traced a line to his manhood. _Such a proud creature_ , JC thought, and covered it with his palm. "You said no man has touched you. How do you know that this is not how men lie together?" 

"I could not ask you," Chris said, "to do that to me." 

"What need of that have you?" JC asked. "I offer. I _wish_ to do that to you." 

They battled wills a moment before, with one slight nod, Chris consented. All courage seeped from JC’s belly and was replaced again by nerves. Chris reached down for him, and JC felt a challenge rise in his throat, but he was wetly kissed instead. When they parted, JC could think only of the ache in his tongue to kiss Chris so intimately. 

Slowly, he slid the length of Chris’s body. He mouthed each rise of muscle, each mark that blemished his skin. At his hips, JC followed the river of salty sweat to his thighs. He spread them with his hands and kissed each one until Chris moaned. Again, he put his mouth to Chris and drank of the juice that flowed there. Lower still he dipped his head until Chris slipped inside. 

His fingers walked paths over the skin they found, Chris’s hips and his belly. The fingers Chris wove with JC’s own. JC suckled until that trickle gushed forth into his mouth. It startled him, and he choked on it. It was warm and bitter and reminded him of old milk. 

Chris did not allow him a moment before JC was rolled to his back. The pendent, which JC had not noticed until then, brushed his lips. Before he could say a thing, Chris came down upon him. JC’s manhood slicked over Chris’s belly, rubbing. Clinging to him, JC could only kiss at his mouth for a brief moment before his body tensed, and he released his seed. 

After, they laid together. JC could hear the rain upon the roof. He stroked Chris’s hair with his fingers and told him a story about a dragon who was lonely, for he had never been loved. His herd had forbade him to peer in the looking pond. One night, he stole away and glanced at himself only to discover he was a white horse whose head sprouted a single twisted horn. 

Chris looked up at him. "Who told you that?" 

"It is my own," JC confessed.


	35. Chapter 35

Once the land had been cleared, there was no task left to fill their time, save one. JC was a demanding, pleasure-thirsty lover, and Chris found he could not deny him. _Nor do I wish to_ , Chris thought as he stood atop a cliff face, watching the ocean roll in. _I have no urge to stop him._

At once, Chris was scandalised by his own desperation and submission to his own will. It seemed wanton to him to spend so much time in bed. Even Joe, whose cock led him like a master led his horse, had never spent this much time partaking in the pleasures of the flesh. _Not that he had much chance to_ , Chris thought. Guilt swelled in him for the years he had spent urging Joe from his lovers’s beds. Ifhehadknown, Chris would have allowed him more time. 

Yet still, at night, Chris barred the door. He thought of the priest and his cousin and where their travels had taken them. The world outside came closer with each passing day. Soon, they would have to hide, and Chris, who had spent his whole life in a mask, was afraid to go back. 

_Afraid that I have forgotten how_ , Chris thought. The terror in his belly was huge, but the love in his heart wholly covered it. He felt brave when he looked at JC, who seemed to bleed courage. It was easy to mistake him for less than what he was. That grin of his blinded even the cruelest man, and JC knew that. So unlike Chris, who had always sought to fade from sight. 

Or been forced there. Chris could admit that was more likely. He had always been ignored. To recognise him was to admit a dozen mistakes. His father had never truly spoken to him in all the years Chris lived under his charge. Chris’s face had mirrored his own, so he had served as a constant reminder of a priest’s failure to ignore the demands of his flesh. A curse that shadowed him and would till the end of his days. 

Twenty-three years to his name, and Chris had hated each one of them. If the punishment for suicide had not outweighed the punishment for everything else, Chris would have never lived to see seventeen. Joe had made life tolerable, but the underlying misery never strayed far. Always there, always haunting, like a ghost that followed him through life, luring him to death. 

Since that night in the tent, when they first met, the ghosts had gone. The fog that had seeped into his head had faded to a dull mist. When he moved his hand, it was all brushed from his eyes. A different sadness hung to him, born of a fear he would never be enough of a man to truly love JC as he deserved. JC held that same fear in him. This time, JC did not give himself so freely. 

Chris touched a hand to his throat. The pendent. He thought to give it back. Each time he kissed JC’s mouth, he thought to offer it. Each time they shared their bodies. Each time they shared a bed, a touch, a look. It belonged not around Chris’s neck. He was no lion at all. 

With one last glance to the ocean, Chris returned to the cottage. Inside, JC lay in bed, carelessly sprawled. Chris tugged his breeches off his hips then climbed onto the mattress, jostling JC awake. Sleepily, JC smiled at him, eyes half closed. _Beautiful_ , Chris thought. 

"Good morning," JC said and stretched his arms over his head. Chris fitted his hand against the slope of JC’s belly and slid it from hip to shoulder. JC touched his fingers to Chris’s brow and smoothed it. "You think too much. I should know not to let you from my sight." 

"You would have to enjoy sleep less," Chris replied. 

"I did not enjoy it at all until you shared my bed," JC said. "Kiss me." 

Chris did as told. He slanted his mouth against JC’s, whose tongue swooped inside then out again and over Chris’s teeth. In return, Chris suckled and pressed at his lips, holding the lower between his teeth. The sharp ridge of JC’s narrow hip fit into his hand. He pulled him close. 

"There," JC said. 

Chris tilted his head. "There?" 

"I have vanquished the sorrow from your eyes." 

"You brought me back to life with your kiss," Chris murmured. He had heard a story once, probably from JC, where that happened. A prince had touched his lips to a maiden’s mouth and rose her from a deep sleep. Chris felt both maiden and prince when he thought of it. 

JC smiled. "That, too." 

"I love you," Chris said. He put his mouth to the curve of JC’s brow and tangled his fingers in his hair. JC lifted his arms and twisted them around his neck. Chris moved his mouth to the bend of each elbow, the soft skin of each wrist. "Believe me. I will love you till my end." 

"That many years?" 

"More," Chris said. "Eternity. If hell should take us, I will go freely to be with you." 

JC looked at him then. The shape of his mouth turned uncertain, and his brow lifted. With his fingers, he searched Chris’s face then touched his ears. Softly, he pulled on the silver there. Not painful, just firm. Chris felt his memory drift to the night Joe had pierced his skin. 

"Joe did that for me. The silver. We had been friends a year. I had spent most of it trying to be rid of him as I am known to do," Chris said. At that, a slight smile touched JC’s lips. "But at a year, I knew he would not leave me. He pierced my ears, and I pierced his." 

"Did it hurt?" 

"Too much mead in our bellies to feel it," Chris confessed. "But, aye, later." 

"I think I would faint," JC said. "Needles make me dizzy. It is a wonder I can sew." 

Chris smiled at him and kissed his mouth again. They twisted together until they were tangled on the mattress. Chris looked down at him. The harsh morning light shone in lines across JC’s face and caught the blue of his eyes. Each time Chris looked at them they seemed a different shade of the sky. Even in darkness, they looked like they held stars. 

"Will you lie with me before breakfast?" JC asked. He lifted a leg and slid it across the backs of Chris’s thighs. Chris settled against JC’s narrow hips, held in the spread of his knees. "I dreamt a handsome thief came into my tent and charmed me." 

"Did he ravage you?" 

"No, but he wished to. I told him my heart belonged to another, who was far more handsome than he," JC said. He twisted his arms above his head. The locks of his hair shifted across his face, and Chris moved them with a nudge of his nose. Chris kissed at his mouth. 

"Should I get him? If he is smart, he never strays too far." Chris knelt as if to leave. 

JC laughed. "You tease me." He twined his arms around Chris’s neck and pulled him back. Chris put his lips over his smile and kissed him until his chest ached for air. Chris pulled back only far enough to breathe. "You know it was you." 

"I love you," Chris said. 

JC folded his hand over Chris’s heart. "I believe you."


	36. Chapter 36

Easily, they fell into a comfortable pattern. They read, and they ate. They lay together whenever the urge did strike. It was often enough that they seemed never to leave bed at all. Their mutual desire for each other seemed endless. When finally their bodies creaked in protest, JC often tended to the horses, riding them bareback across the sand to let them run. Even Alistair let JC ride upon him, though he threw him as often as he kept him, but never did JC seem to mind. Chris fixed Lance’s house, to ensure it would last a winter’s storm and that no man would ever again break a table with his back. Those times apart were rare and fleeting. Each morning, Chris awoke with the knowledge that soon the world would circle them again. 

A river flowed at the edge of Lance’s land, where they retrieved fresh water. It widened into a pool near the eastern most boundary, deep enough in the middle that their toes could no longer touch sand. It was cold, so they could not stay long, but Chris had picked that morning in early autumn to teach JC to swim. If he waited much longer, winter would stop them. 

"Hold me," JC demanded. His voice wobbled with nerves. Chris kept his arms around his waist as they walked further into the pond. With caution, he lowered JC until his shoulders touched the water then held him over his arms like he lay in bed. "It is frigid." 

"Aye," Chris said. His cock had crawled into his belly to sit with his balls. 

"Winter comes too soon," JC said. He dipped his head into the water to drench his hair. Chris held him so he did not slip, though it was hard. He was a mass of arms and legs, and Chris had never been a big man. Still, JC was calm enough that he made it easy. "How do I do this?" 

"Try to float," Chris said. "Do not think about it. Simply let yourself go." 

JC’s body stretched in the water, entrusted completely to Chris’s care. His eyes closed, and JC smiled at the sun. Chris’s heart lifted to his throat. It felt swollen and warm. He swallowed it down again. Cautiously, he let go. JC stayed were he was, spread like a star. 

JC opened one eye. "Do I swim?" 

"You float, which is good enough," Chris said. The water felt a close brother to ice. 

JC rolled onto his belly and sank like a rock. Chris grabbed him and hauled him out of the water. JC’s legs hooked around Chris’s waist as his arms twisted around Chris’s neck. JC clung to him and choked water out onto his shoulder. It was shallow enough to stand, but JC had not seemed to realise it. Chris rubbed his back until he quieted. 

"I tried too much," JC said. He seemed dazed. His eyes were wide. 

Chris walked them both to the shore and set JC down upon the blankets they had left. Gently, Chris squeezed the water from his hair then covered his nakedness. JC shook under him. Chris slid against his body and held him there, offering what damp warmth he could. 

"We will try again come spring. It is too cold," Chris said. With a finger, he hooked a curl of JC’s hair behind his ear. The arch of it felt frozen. Chris put his mouth to it and blew warm air. JC tilted into him, and laughter choked his throat. "Does that help?" 

"Perhaps," JC said. 

"Would my mouth be better used elsewhere?" 

"It depends on where you wish to put-" 

"Here," Chris said and touched his soft cock. Immediately, it started to plump in his hand, long and slender like a sword. JC smiled into his neck and kissed at it. Chris had not yet kissed him like a man kissed another man’s body. He had come close, and his need was strong. 

"Your word," JC murmured. 

"My word." 

With that, JC ran bare and merry to the cottage. Chris laughed at him and, with the blankets in his arms, followed his path. His chest heaved when he burst into the room then did not lift at all. JC stole his breath with beauty, legs as long as the ocean’s arc, body pale as moon light. Chris tumbled into bed with him and kissed the map of his skin. 

Chris kissed his delicate wrists, his broad shoulders, his hardened nipples. He kissed on his breast and his belly, then each of his knobby knees. Chris kissed his thighs, which he lifted and spread in his hands, and his cock, too. There Chris kissed with all the love he knew and all the love he had yet to know. When JC spilled his seed, Chris took it into his belly in hopes it would make him strong and keep an essence of JC inside him for all time. 

They lay together until the sun started to dip. When they grew tired, they kissed, but when they grew passionate, they touched each other until they came off. A shock of white splashed Chris’s lips, and he licked at them until JC, with his tongue, drank the rest. Chris felt the life pulse through his veins as the pleasure pooled in his cock. The love stayed in his heart. 

"Make me a feast," JC murmured. 

"Pleasure clouds your head. You ask impossible things," Chris said. 

JC smiled at him. "Then make me what you can, and I will eat it happily." 

"I will make potatoes," Chris warned. 

"Yes. But so would I." 

Drunk with laughter, Chris pressed one kiss to JC’s mouth and another to his belly then tumbled from bed. He dressed in his breeches and a thick shirt. Chris left his boots off and walked out. The fire from lunch had dwindled, so he lit it again and stoked it to flame. 

As a handful of potatoes boiled in their skins, Chris milked the nearest heifer. It moaned at him until he was done then stamped its foot. Quietly, Chris apologised. JC was so gentle with the cows that they preferred him. They were not nearly as blank as they looked. 

When Chris returned, JC sat by the fire, warming his hands. Chris sat aside him and rubbed JC’s knuckles. Chris slanted his mouth over JC’s and shared his heated breath. When they parted, it was only to check the potatoes, which turned to mush too easily. They ate side by side. Only their knees touched. Much more and Chris would have lifted him and taken them both back to bed. 

JC had left to bring a bowl of potatoes to the horses when he shouted, "they return!" 

Chris stood and looked to where JC faced. Down the path, three men and a cart pulled by two horses moved along briskly. Had it truly been a month? _More,_ Chris thought, _at least two weeks late, yet still too soon._ They had not had enough time together, yet Chris knew even a thousand days more would not have quenched the thirst of his desire. 

JC waved at them, and Justin waved back. Joe trumpeted their arrival through his fists until Lance shouted at him and elbowed him in his belly. They had not even come to a stop before both Joe and Justin had sprung from the cart. JC and Justin embraced warmly. _A good friend_ , Chris thought. He had not noticed the depth of their friendship before. 

"Kilpatrick," Joe said. 

There was an awkward, strange moment where Chris could not move to him. Even when Joe offered his hand, Chris could not take it. He had seen Joe’s eyes flicker between him and JC. It cut him deeply to know distrust for him lived in Joe’s head, though Chris knew it was deserved. Finally, he took Joe’s hand and held it. Only then did Joe look solely at him. 

"Did you have a good journey?" JC asked. 

"Long and tiring," Lance replied. The skin beneath his eyes had sunk and turned blue. Exhaustion covered him like a veil, a bone deep sort of weariness that was set by sadness. _Or humiliation_ , Chris thought. A trip for money was never good for a man’s pride. "And on that, tell me, how did you fare?" 

"Your lands are cleared for spring," JC said, a hitch of excitement to his voice. It was a question loaded with many stories. "Chris made you a new table and fixed your chairs. We were nearly robbed by a priest and his cousin. The cousin left his mark on Chris." 

Chris pulled back his sleeve and showed his scar. It had bubbled with infection for two weeks, so it looked as fresh as the day he had been carved. All three men hissed at it, but Chris merely shrugged. "He speaks as if I did anything more than act the cow for slaughter. If JC had not held a knife to the priest’s throat, I would be dead." Chris smiled at him. "JC saved my life." 

"Oh, Chris fought. That is how the table broke," JC said. "And I have a name!" 

"You do," Joe said. A smile touched Joe’s lips, though Chris could tell he resisted it. 

"Joshua," JC said proudly. "My name is Joshua. I read it in my book." 

"Do you wish us to call you that?" Justin asked. 

JC shook his head. "No, not yet. It still seems odd to me, like it is not me." 

"Tell us more as we walk," Lance said. 

Chris did not follow when they moved since Joe did not. Instead, Chris followed Joe and the horses to the back of Lance’s home. Chris unhitched Lance’s gelding as Joe did the same for Joseph the Third. Oliver snuffled in Chris’s ear and chewed at his hair. Chris patted his nose. 

"Was it truly a successful journey?" Chris asked. 

"Lance puts on a brave front, does he not?" Joe kept his eyes ahead. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper than they had when he left. "It was a hard journey. We lost three cows, and there is so much misery, Chris. Whole towns gone by plague and English Lords, if there is a difference between the two. We are set to get a new king." 

"You are set," Chris murmured. 

"If I am English enough for them. I have my doubts of that these days," Joe replied. 

They left the horses to pasture with Fleur and Alastair. Joe did not seem anxious to return to the cottage, so Chris stayed with him at the fence and watched the horses prance around as if they no longer knew each other. Chris felt that way toward Joe, and it saddened his heart. 

"I love him," Chris said quietly. "JC." 

"Aye," Joe said. Joe stared at his hands clasped together, and Chris, who could not force his eyes elsewhere, stared at Joe’s mouth. "At first sight you did, Kilpatrick. You can never claim otherwise, and I will never believe you if you try." 

"I would not dare," Chris replied. "We have laid together, him and I." 

"Do not toy with a weary man’s emotions, Chris." 

Chris smiled. "That I would not dare either." 

"A kiss does not count." 

"Would that not depend on where he is kissed?" Chris asked. When Joe finally turned his head, Chris lifted his eyebrows. Joe narrowed his eyes, and Chris grinned at him. He could not stop himself when he tried. Giddiness rose in his throat. It was big and hard to swallow. 

"Kilpatrick," Joe said. His voice cracked, and Chris knew he had said too much. 

Joe lifted him off the ground and whirled him around until he was dizzy. When his feet touched the ground, Chris stumbled. Joe shouted as loud as the roar of thunder. Chris had just found his balance when he was hoisted again by the waist. The world flipped. Chris hung over Joe’s shoulder as Joe yelped and slapped Chris’s arse with his hand. 

"Put me down, Joe!" 

"You owe me years, Kilpatrick, more than years. Three lifetimes at least for all the nights I have spent worrying for your happiness." Joe twisted them around. When they stilled, Joe slapped his rear again then ran him across the moor. "You admit to the pleasures of the flesh?" 

"Male flesh," Chris replied. "Women are still unsatisfying to me." 

"Praise be! That is more than enough, you insufferable fool." 

Chris could see Lance past Joe’s elbow. Beside him, JC grinned brightly, and Chris was helpless to mirror it. Chris did not mind that Justin laughed at him, too. Chris laughed at himself, squeezing his arms around Joe’s waist until Joe gasped and let him fall. Chris settled hard in the grass but dared not move. If he did, Joe would grab him again. 

"He tells me you are lovers," Joe said. 

"Does he?" JC said. "Well, if he says so, then it must be true." 

Chris lay still until he was sure JC was in Joe’s arms. He looked up to see Lance’s hand and took it. The hug Lance offered once he stood surprised him, but he returned it. Justin offered his hand, but Lance pushed them together and forced them to embrace. 

"He has the manners of a donkey," Justin muttered. 

"Then you have much in common," Chris said. His mouth did not heed the warnings of his brain. 

"At least I do not have a face like one," Justin said. His arms tightened into pain. 

"Ah." Chris knotted his own arms closer. "I see you do not own a mirror then." 

They pulled back and shared a grin. Lance hooked Justin’s waist with his arm and pulled him close then yelled at Joe to let JC down. Smiling, Chris inhaled a deep breath and looked to the ocean. It was dark and vast, a constant foam of spray being spit from its mouth. 

From behind, arms wrapped about Chris. JC, he hoped, unless Joe had come back to torture him further. The kiss behind his ear assured him it was the man he wished. JC nosed at his brow then whispered, "you told him." 

"How could I not?" 

"Still," JC said. JC slid around him until they faced each other. Chris put his hand over JC’s brow and smoothed back his hair. If the others still lurked about, Chris did not know, nor did he care. _Let them see_ , Chris thought. _Lance and Justin do the same, and Joe has waited three lifetimes_. And Chris knew, no place else would they ever be allowed such freedom.


	37. Chapter 37

When JC woke, it felt as if all the weight of the world had settled in his belly. JC removed himself from Chris’s arms without rousing him. Quickly, he dressed. Outside, a chill had settled. JC shivered. Soon enough, it would be winter. Later still, they would roll into spring, and it would be a year since he had left his father’s family. _No longer mine, as if they ever were,_ JC thought. Time had passed without his notice. 

Joe was already with the horses, saddling them. JC approached him, smiling. Kindly, Joe returned his grin then tilted his head at Fleur, who had yet to be loaded with JC’s pack. JC scratched over Fleur’s neck and belly until he neighed happily and stomped his front hooves. 

"I think my heart has settled here," JC admitted. 

"And to think you are a traveller," Joe said, tightening Alistair’s saddle. 

"Once. It seems to have passed with my womanhood," JC replied. 

Joe laughed, low and deep. It warmed JC despite the morning cold, though his belly still ached and heat pinched at his eyes. Joe hooked his chin over JC’s shoulder and held him round the waist with one arm. All at once, JC felt the shiver leave his body. 

"Has your heart not settled with Chris?" Joe asked. 

"It has, but I know nothing of what the world is truly like. As a woman, I was taught silence. I know how to follow men, but I do not know how to be one." JC swallowed a lump the size of an apple in his throat. "And I am afraid, too. My heart is with Chris, but what if it does not hide well enough inside him? Chris’s fears are huge, but are they not also valid?" 

"I will not lie to you and say it will be easy." 

"Very little in my life has been," JC said. 

Joe squeezed him. "Are you at least happy?" 

"I am," JC said. 

"Then that is the only answer I can give. Life is far too short to waste it on the miserable. Why fear what you cannot change? You have to trust what is in here." Gentle, Joe folded his hand over JC’s breast. JC could feel the thump of his own heart in his throat. "And tell the rest of the world to be damned if they do not like it. Live for you, JC, and let it make you happy." 

JC nodded. In time, his belly unclenched, and once the horses were prepared, he was able to eat. Chris stumbled from the cottage, bleary-eyed and wild looking. JC had taken a comb to his head the night before to work out the knots. In the morning light, very little seemed changed about it. JC felt heat flood his face. _Perhaps_ , he thought, _I did that to him_. Their last night had been spent together on the beach. They had lain together under blankets until the cold had sent them inside. One final time, Chris had said, before they would have to hide. 

JC bid farewell to Lance’s mares. Come spring, he hoped there would be a gathering of foals dancing around if only for Lance’s sake. Affectionately, the mares nuzzled his face. He had named them all after the constellations: Lyra, Ara, Carina and Vela. Lance had let them keep the names. They put to shame the ones he had picked, Lance had said. 

JC tried to memorise the feel of the land beneath his feet. He had walked on Irish soil his whole life, yet he never thought to remember the paths he took. It had never been as memorable as this place. Months of wasted summer, then finally. _Finally_ , JC thought, and looked out at the roll of the ocean. Always, his skin felt heated. Always, his lips felt kissed. Always. 

Joe had already given them an extra three days, but they could wait no longer. The air had cooled, and Chris swore soon the land would be covered in frost. Chris pulled the truth to make it lengthier, but the end was the same. Winter was nigh. JC had not asked Chris to let Joe go on his own, though he had thought it. There were still places left in Ireland that Joe still had to visit, and Chris, too. 

_Do not be selfish_ , JC thought. _You have had more than you ever dreamed_. 

"What holds your eyes?" Chris asked. His hands settled on JC’s belly, and Chris stood behind him. From him, JC could feel the heat of his body. He reclined into it and let his head come to rest a moment on Chris’s wide shoulder. "The ocean?" 

"It is more that my feet are held by the land," JC said. 

"I admit to some sorrow in leaving." 

"Will you still kiss me out there?" 

"Aye. If not with my mouth, then my eyes and my words." Chris put warm lips on JC’s neck, and breathed a kiss over his skin. At once, heart flared in JC’s body. He took Chris’s hand and held it between his palms. "And there is always the shadow of night. We are not the first men to be lovers. I doubt we will be the last. There must be ways." 

"We will find them," JC said. 

"Aye." Chris smiled against his neck. JC felt it. "We will." 

Joe shouted for them. The others had already gathered by the horses. They gripped hands for a moment and walked back together. All faces were sombre. JC had never had friends before. It seemed too soon to leave half of them behind. Without a word, JC embraced Justin. 

"I am glad you found your way here," JC whispered. He put his mouth to Justin’s ear and kissed it. Justin merely nodded into his neck and held him. There was a mountain of things JC still wished to say, thanks he still needed to offer, but he suspected Justin knew it all already. 

Beside him, Joe and Lance spoke quietly. Joe kept one big hand on Lance’s shoulder, the other curled around the back of his neck. Lance’s cheeks shone. _Tears_ , JC thought and wondered if he should turn away, but he did not. Justin also watched them. Only Chris kept down his head. 

"You will be fine," Joe said. Lance dropped his eyes to the ground. By the scruff of Lance’s neck, Joe held him. "You will be. You have already come so far." Joe’s voice dropped like a rock through water. "You are no longer alone. He loves you. You know he does." 

Lance said nothing, but his eyes slanted shut. 

"We will see each other again," Joe said. He touched their brows. From where he stood, JC could see tears roll like drops of rain down Lance’s cheeks. Joe’s fingers fanned on Lance’s neck and dried them as they fell. "I give you my word, Lance Bass." 

JC stepped back as Justin moved forward. Chris came behind him and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. JC sniffled and swiped at his eyes with a dirty hand. Joe and Lance still shared words, though Justin had entered into the embrace. Smiling, Joe tugged on Justin’s knotted curls. 

Behind Fleur, he and Chris shared a kiss. Deeply wet, it spoke of quiet desperation and longing. _Almost like before_ , JC thought, but it also felt wholly new. Chris did not struggle to withhold his love as they kissed. Instead, he struggled to contain it. Keenly, JC felt the difference. 

Chris broke the kiss. "We must go," he said. 

Forcing his wooden legs to move, JC climbed onto Fleur. He skittered nervously in place for a moment before stilling again. With crooked fingers, JC combed through his white mane. When it snowed, JC wondered if Fleur would disappear into it. He was not the deep brown of Alistair or the pitch blackness of Joseph the Third. Even Oliver’s light coat did not match the pure whiteness of Fleur. 

Alistair darted away without warning, throwing Chris as he attempted to mount. JC smiled as Chris ran after the stubborn beast. It lightened his heart and Lance’s, it seemed, who had finally opened his strange green eyes to watch. JC hoped all would be well with him. 

"Kilpatrick!" Joe shouted, laughing. "Can you not control that damned beast for a moment?" 

"Where is the fun in that?" Chris replied. His words echoed over the moors before they were swallowed by the ocean. It took another heartbeat before Chris was on Alistair’s back and trying to grab for his reins. They returned no worse than they had left. Chris even looked fond. 

At last, Joe mounted. Lance gripped his hand to the very last moment. When Joe leaned and ruffled his hair, Lance stepped back before it was too mussed. Still, a few errant strands of dark cornsilk slipped out of the knot. Justin combed his fingers through them. Gently, he tucked each one back into place. JC saw it and bit at his lips to hide his smile. 

"Ride safely, my friends," Lance said. 

"And come back to visit," Justin added. 

"Aye." Lance took Justin’s hand and held it to his breast. "That, too." 

With a click of his tongue and a kick of his heels, Joe urged Joseph the Third into motion. Alistair and Fleur followed with a steady clop. JC watched as Lance and Justin waved. He lifted his hand but could not force his arm to move. Instead, his eyes flickered across the land. The cottage, the ocean, the fields, the river, the cliffs, the sand. All of it, JC committed to memory. 

Lance and Justin shrank with each step Fleur took until, finally, the horizon rose up and swallowed them. At once, JC felt his stomach drop. _It is over_ , he thought, _we have truly left_. His heart still wished to be there, and he felt it keenly as thought it had already split his skin attempting to return. Heat spread over his eyes, but he dared not cry. 

"Next year’s summer, we will return. Lance might have mares to breed," Joe said. 

JC looked at Joe. He knew his face betrayed his pain. Words swelled in his throat, so he could not claim otherwise. Silent, he nodded, but still, he dipped his head and let his hair rush to cover his face. There were times he missed the veil and all it could hide. 

When he thought that, he felt his belly turn to stone. He curled a hand against it to soothe the uneasiness. _Forgive me_ , he thought. Never again did he wish to disappear into nothing. As if Chris knew, he took JC’s hand from where he sat. The heat of Alistair’s belly pressed into his leg, and for once, the horse seemed calm. They said nothing to each other. JC’s heart was there.


	38. Chapter 38

"Aye. After she was born, I could fit her between hand and elbow." Joe touched his fingers to his palm then to the bend of his arm. His face shone with happiness and pride. "Never had I seen a babe so little. I had not met the first two until they had grown for some months, but this one. I felt like a giant. I feared I would drop her!" 

"You would never," JC said. 

"This one was just a wee thing, though," Chris added. "She looked like a drowned rat." 

"Hold your tongue, Kilpatrick," Joe warned, though his eyes stayed merry and continued on with his tale as far as Chris would let him. Then, they would pause and bicker over the truth of it until, finally, Joe would still Chris’s clever tongue. JC listened and laughed when needed. 

Joe had enough stories for a town of men, and each one had actually happened. It kept JC’s mind busy, which saved his body from pain. JC had forgotten how _hard_ it was to travel. It had only been two days since they had left, yet he was already weary. His legs stiffened like unbending trees, so each time he dismounted, he stumbled. JC took some solace in the fact that both Joe and Chris suffered, too. 

And how it rained. There was no escape. Constantly, the sky dripped on them and soaked them through. The land had turned to mud, and the horses had trouble with the sudden hills and hidden holes. More than once, Alistair had been startled and threw Chris from his back. If the rain was good for nothing else, it softened the grass and broke Chris’s falls. 

At dusk, they stopped upon a fork in the road. Joe stood in his saddle and glanced around then twitched his chin. In the distance, JC could see a circle of brightly orange torches. And people too, dancing and singing. The wind carried the scent of freshly cooked meat. 

"Wedding," Joe said. 

"Aye," Chris replied. "To brave this weather, some poor girl’s field must be sown." 

"You do not have a romantic bone in your body, do you, Kilpatrick?" 

"He has plenty," JC replied, "though I admit they may be buried deep inside him." 

"Ach. Now I have the two of you joining sides against me. You spare me no love, the lot of you," Chris said. Though he marched Alistair ahead, JC could see Chris’s mouth splitting his face in merriment. Joe chortled. "Aye. Keep laughing, you English fool. You will miss me." 

"And where will you head, O brave and noble Irishman?" 

"Scotland," Chris replied. "Their standards are low enough that I should be king." 

Behind his hand, JC laughed, though he felt rotten doing it. At once, he missed Justin, who would have frowned and defended his tartan at Chris’s jibe, and Lance, too, who would have hushed him as JC would have hushed Chris. Instead, Chris and Joe bickered like two hens. 

"Are you hungry, JC?" Joe asked. 

Startled, JC looked up. They both peered at him, hair wet against their faces. The whites of their eyes jumped from the shadows. "A little," JC admitted. He moved a hand against his empty belly. "Though it is more that I am tired and sore. May we rest for the night?" 

"Aye. Good idea. I, my friends, will invite myself to the wedding and get us dinner. The two of you set up that horrid tent," Joe said and waved his hand at the pack Chris carried. The previous night, Joe had tried and nearly split his skull with the posts. JC had tended to his bloody bump as Chris had laughed at him for the whole of the night and into the morrow. 

JC tied Fleur and Alistair to a tree. A large puddle of water had filled by their feet, and they drank from it as Chris took the loads from their backs. Joe had disappeared into the rain. The lights still flickered in the distance. 

"Do you often invite yourselves to weddings?" 

"If we happen upon them and our bellies are empty or in danger of becoming so," Chris replied. With a hand, he pushed the tangle of his hair from his face and squeezed out the water. "And we never take so much that other people go hungry from the loss." 

"And if they do, you gladly hand over your spoils," JC said. 

"Aye." Chris handed a sack to JC. Their hands brushed, and before they could part once more, Chris crooked his smallest finger and caught JC’s in its hook. They stayed like that for a heartbeat before Chris turned. "Like I said, I am a terrible thief." 

"You stole something that night," JC murmured. He touched the tip of his smallest finger to his lower lip and let his eyes flicker closed. _A kiss_ , JC thought, _he has kissed me without his mouth_. He moved his hand to his chest. Inside, his heart seemed huge enough to hold. 

Chris set the tent next to the closest tree. They would still sleep in flooded grass, but at least they would not be rained upon all night. Between them, they managed enough heat that rest was possible, though JC dreamed of oceans. Last night, he had thought of nothing else. 

Under the cover of the tent, they huddled. JC puffed warm breath onto his hands and rubbed them together. Chris had tucked his under his arms and brought his knees to his chest. Together, they shivered. As if to add further discomfort, JC’s belly twisted with hunger. It growled like a wild animal. Chris poked at it. 

"It speaks," he said. 

"Be careful, or I shall have to eat you," JC replied. He grinned as his teeth still chattered. 

"Do you give me your word?" 

JC looked over at Chris, who leered in a way that caused heat to spread all over JC’s frozen body. A laugh rose from his belly, and he leaned over to kiss Chris’s neck. Chris allowed it, though his shoulders stiffened. _Still afraid of being caught_ , JC thought. They were hidden by rain and darkness, but Chris, as JC had come to understand, was sure he was always watched. 

"Warm me with your words," JC said. "Sing to me." 

Chris looked away. JC reached for him and combed his hair behind his ear with a finger. JC let it linger on Chris’s damp neck before he touched his lips. Unblinking, Chris nipped at him. The scrape of his teeth was gentle, and once his mouth was opened, a song came out. 

JC listened with a head laid on Chris’s shoulder. Chris’s voice was not the woman’s voice he claimed. Had it been, JC would not have felt so deep a need with each striking word. The restless need in his body pooled between his legs. Chewing his lip until it bled, JC felt as if they shared a bed. All of him wished to push Chris to the grass and ravish him. 

Instead, JC let him sing another and listened to the tale of the two sisters, one with dark hair, the other fair, both in love with a knight. JC knew it, though his words were different, so he joined their voices together with the smoothest stitch. At times, they came undone and bumbled the words, but through laughter, they pressed to the final word. 

"You did not tell me you were a minstrel," JC said. 

"I have managed to keep a few ballads in my head," Chris admitted. 

"Your voice is beautiful," JC whispered. He kept his mouth close to Chris’s ear. Nosing at the round of it, JC murmured, "I love you more for it." Chris twisted his head, and JC smiled at him. In the shadow of night, he took Chris’s hand and moved it between his legs. "Feel it." 

Through his breeches, JC could feel the icy cold of Chris’s fingers. He closed his thighs around him, trapping him in the warmth JC knew was hidden there. His other hand, JC grabbed and blew upon it. One by one, he kissed each frozen tip of his fingers then took them, one by one, into his mouth. Chris’s eyes stayed dark and covetous on his own. 

"Chris! JC!" 

At once, JC pulled away and stuck his head out into the rain. Joe walked to them with a woman at his side, full-bodied with a smile on her face. Under the tent, Chris brushed a hand over the curve of his rear before he stood and stepped into the storm. 

"This is Sheila, the bride’s widowed mother. The short man is Chris; the tall man is JC," Joe said. His voice was loud and merry. He had been into the mead, then, or the whiskey. Sheila was clasped under his arm. With her hand, she held a blanket over her long hair. "She has offered us shelter for the night and all the food our bellies can hold." 

"My lady," Chris said and took her hand to kiss. "Our thanks." 

"Not a fit night out for any soul," she replied. Joe squeezed her around the middle, and she laughed happily into his chest. Together, they stumbled off. Chris and JC followed with the horses, tossing the tent over Fleur’s back. Ahead, Joe and Sheila sang a joyful yet tuneless song. 

"The bride’s mother," Chris said and shook his head. 

"At least she is widowed," JC said. He could not bite the smile from his lips. 

"Aye." Chris’s expression was wry. "I suppose there is that." 

At Sheila’s home, they tied the horses then joined the wedding party. Chris went for the food, and JC followed a step behind. From where he was, he could see the bride in her white gown with dried wildflowers woven into her hair. Her husband was a dark and handsome man. 

JC helped himself to the mutton and shared a mug of mead with Chris. They sat side by side on the trunk of a nearby fallen tree and watched as they ate. Chris split a hunk of buttered bread to dip into the bowl of stew he held in his lap. JC leaned against him and ate the rest. 

A bearded man picked up his fiddle and started playing. The crowd erupted into cheers and song. Two girls with hair like golden straw grabbed Chris and him by the hands and tugged them into the fray. The sea of people carried Chris away, though the fair-haired girl stayed near to him. JC’s own took him by the waist until he faced her. There, she led, and he was grateful. 

Joe bumped him from behind, Sheila in one hand, a cup of mead in the other. Joe spilled most of it in JC’s hair, though JC merely laughed and opened his mouth for the rest of it. His nameless woman spun him round, and they moved together in spirals amidst the merry folk. 

JC danced until his chest ached and the woman in his arms was not the one he started with. She had hair red as flame and breasts larger than his hands could hold. She fed him drink until he was dizzy and laughing. His skin was soaked with sweat, rain and mead. He spun until he toppled into the wet grass. His girl landed heavily beside him and tried to kiss him. 

"My lady," he said and pushed her back. "I cannot." 

"To hell with you," she said and left him. 

He lay there until Chris stumbled over to him and heaved him to his feet. Joe and Sheila were kissing behind the tree. Joe’s hand was spread against her bodice, over the swell of her breast. His mouth moved over her throat and licked the skin there. Her face opened with rapture. 

"An Irish wedding, for you. No man goes to bed alone," Chris said. 

"Aye," JC said and grinned at him. "And no man here shall." 

Chris led the lot of them to Sheila’s house. Once they were all inside, he barred the door and set JC into the nearest chair. Dizzy and breathless still, JC slumped against the table. The wood was rough under his cheek. From where he sat, he could see Joe. He had lifted Sheila into his arms, and they kissed against the wall. Her legs, short and slender, circled his waist. 

"To bed with you both!" Chris said and shooed them into the closest room. Behind them, he shut the door and pulled so it stayed. Again, Chris hoisted him to his wobbly legs. They stumbled like drunkards to the daughter’s room, which would forever again be empty. 

Inside, the room was dark. JC needed no light. He grabbed Chris by the hips and pulled him close enough that JC could feel his manhood, stiff and hot, through his breeches. Blindly, he kissed at him until, finally, he happened upon the open, waiting mouth. Between the music, and the mead, and the two days of riding, JC was overwhelmed with desire for Chris. He felt it more than ever before, when all he had were his fitful dreams. 

"Some succubus has your body," Chris murmured. "You will ravish me in my sleep." 

"Nothing so evil. My desire is borne of love for you," JC whispered. He caught Chris’s mouth in a deep kiss, fingers against his neck and in the black tangle of his hair. Chris pushed against him until JC had lifted upon his thigh, which sat thick between his legs. They tumbled onto the bed and the soft mattress. The wooden frame hit hard against the wall and knocked something to the floor. 

Chris folded his hand over JC’s mouth. JC could hear Joe and Sheila, her cries of desperate passion matching the ones Chris held inside JC’s lips with his palm. They were safe. No man could hear anything over the noise Joe and Sheila made together. JC slid his hands into Chris’s breeches and pushed them down until Chris’s manhood was bared. JC could only feel it wet and hot against his belly. 

Chris stripped his shirt then took JC’s, and they kissed again like desperate virgins until JC’s lips tingled with heat. His breeches stuck to his legs, wet from the pouring rain, and his knee got Chris in the belly as JC tried to shuck them. But once they settled, skin as hot from dancing as it was cold from the rain, JC nearly lost his senses from the pleasure. 

"I love you madly," Chris whispered. It came warm against JC’s ear, and JC shivered with it, letting Chris kiss his throat, his face, his jaw. His fingers led Chris’s mouth over him, buried in his raven locks. Over his breast and his belly, JC spread his legs and begged a kiss between them. Chris suckled him there, an eager tongue and a deep mouth stroking his hardened flesh. Helpless to his dire need, JC lifted his hips and covered his own mouth with his hand. 

Chris sucked until JC came off into his mouth. They joined lips and shared it between them. It was warm and thick like milk before it churned completely to butter. Against his belly, Chris’s cock leaked on his skin. _Hot like iron_ , JC thought, and gripped it in his hand. 

JC rolled Chris to his back and straddled him. Never did he let his hand drop. Instead, he milked Chris like he did the cows, careful but with sure fingers. The drops that gathered there, he scooped with his fingers and brought them to his mouth then moved those same ones to Chris’s lips and glistened his skin. JC leaned over him and kissed it all away. 

Under him now, Chris’s manhood stayed stiff. JC settled on it so it slicked behind his balls and the valley of skin there. Then, perched there as he was, he rocked against Chris and palmed Chris’s rapidly lifting chest. Each nipple hardened into a pebble with just one touch. Moving over him as Chris matched each stir in time, JC brought him off and swallowed his groan with a deep and lingering kiss. 

"To think you were a virgin not so long ago," Chris whispered and held him close. Now settled and their skin cooled, the night was cold again and the wetness was uncomfortable. Chris dried them both with the blankets, but the night remained frigid. "Here. Let me warm you." 

Closer still, they tangled, and Chris rubbed over his back until heat returned to his skin. JC feel asleep there, head dizzy but body sated. When he woke again, it was still dark and Joe stood naked over him, a lit candle in one hand. 

"Come," Joe whispered. He threaded each of JC’s legs into his breeches then turned him around so he faced Chris’s feet. Joe slid a pillow under his head. Beside him, Chris stirred as Joe put Chris into his own breeches, but he did not seem to wake. His brain trapped in a fog of confusion, JC watched Joe with half-closed eyes. 

"If she should see-" 

"Oh," JC said. 

"Aye. Now hush and get what sleep you can. My lady is merely catching her breath," Joe whispered. His grin glistened hugely in the dim light, and JC offered his own in return. Fondly, Joe ruffled his hair then blew the candle out and left. Sleep quickly claimed him.


	39. Chapter 39

They stayed a day and another night in that small town. Joe and his lady pleasured each other until their bodies offered no more. In the deep shade of evening, JC sang a litany of romantic ballads. Chris and Joe performed their magic for Sheila’s kin, though Chris had protested against it. It seemed so long ago that he had used it, but once his fingers remembered their dance, all he touched vanished into air. Even JC watched him with wide eyes, bewildered. 

In the dawn, they set out once more. Sheila and Joe embraced warmly as friends. Her pale skin had a healthy glow to it. Her cheeks were red with delight. Chris held his eyes still, though they yearned to reach back into his head. Joe and his women. Was no lady immune to his charms? A larger part of Chris was happy to see Joe laid. It put the swagger back in his step. 

They rode all morning. Joe talked about women and their infinite needs and his desire to sate them. The mistake, Chris thought, was that Joe’s father put him into the monastery at all. Chris believed, quite firmly, if Joe had not had to prove his manhood, he would be married. 

"My first lady had come to see her brother, who studied with me in England. Never had I come across a woman so willing," Joe said. _This story again_ , Chris thought. "Aye. This lady had lost her husband to a Frenchman’s sword in a duel. Her brother, whom they had tended, had been sent away by her husband. Upon his untimely death, she had come to retrieve him." 

"That was kind of her," JC said. 

"Aye. You would think, but poor Lance, whom from afar loved Alexander dearly, was none too pleased. He set me on the lady to distract her while Lance wished his love farewell. I, not yet in my fifteenth year, distracted her as best I knew. I flattered her lovely hair," Joe said. 

Chris snorted. 

Joe, unspurred, widely grinned and lifted his voice. Beneath him, Joseph the Third marched merrily onwards. "Aye. There was a time when I had not yet known a lady’s pleasure. Even I can scarcely remember it, but there it is. My story, if you will grant permission to continue, Kilpatrick." 

Chris dipped his head. 

"So the lady with the lovely hair put her hand on my breeches and opened them. There, she gripped me in her fist and led me between her knees. Into her quim, I was taken, body as well as soul. Scarcely hidden in the gleam of the full moon, we laid together in the hay behind the stable, and she taught me the fine art of bedding a lady to satisfaction." 

"Did that truly happen?" JC asked. 

"So he claims," Chris replied. 

And so it went as they travelled through the day. The rain had lifted, and for that, Chris was grateful. It allowed him to clearly hear the words being exchanged. Joe told a story, and JC offered what he could in return. Chris kept his own mouth shut. Any story he had in his head would dampen the merry mood. Those that did not were ones he shared with Joe, who wildly embellished them into legends worthy of a balladeer. 

"I must ask." They had been talking, though Chris had scarcely listened to their words. The deep blue of the sky had captivated him, and the shapes of the clouds had become a game. "I have held my tongue long enough. How did you not know you were a man? Surely you suspected. I suspected when I first saw you. Not of your manhood, but that you held secrets." 

"Joe," Chris said. 

"Chris," JC said. 

"JC," Joe said and smiled brightly. 

"How did you know you were a man?" 

"By my cock," Joe replied. 

_It would be that simple in his world_ , Chris thought. 

"But if you had been told it was a woman’s part? Would you have doubted it?" JC asked. Chris watched his face for discomfort, but he had always spoken plainly of it to Chris. It seemed the same openness extended to Joe’s prying. "I had never seen another naked. My mother bathed me at night in a long shirt. When I grew, I was not allowed near water." 

"You have seven siblings. Surely you saw one of them," Joe said. 

"You do not know what it is like to be unloved," JC replied. It came softly, and it bore no resemblance to a question. A fact presented as such without bias. Ashamed, Joe dropped his head. Had Chris said that to him, they would have argued. "Joe, I know you mean no harm." 

"I am rude," Joe muttered. 

"Are not all Englishmen?" JC asked. 

When Joe sharply raised his head, JC’s laughter rang out like a song. Even Chris smiled, though his belly still turned in discomfort. To think someone had never loved this man, Chris could not imagine it. Even Chris, at his most unwilling, had loved and been loved in returned. 

"I was not to speak to them, and they ignored me. My mother alone spoke to me, until she died. Maggie spoke to me then. She was cruel," JC said. Chris felt his teeth start to grind. That sister. Chris remembered her and the tone she had used, the food she had denied. "And my father only said enough to make it clear he had no use for me." 

"You are a remarkable man for one so unloved," Joe said. His dark eyes shifted to Chris and held there. It took all the strength in Chris’s body to return it. They kept a moment between them, deeply intimate, until Joe said, "the both of you." 

"Well, I had my mother," JC said. "I would never have known I was unloved in her presence. She hid the most of it from me. My father’s hate. His wrath. She kept me by her side in the waking moments, and I never strayed. In sleep, we huddled together." 

"You never thought to hate her," Chris said. 

"She did the best she could with me," JC replied. "She was only a woman." 

They rode in silence after that last word, though Chris knew Joe simmered to speak his mind on women. Joe was a man out of time, Chris had always thought. He belonged in another world, where his rules were law. Faith, joy and love would be plentiful, if Joe had his way. 

In the distance, the sun began to dip. They were close, Joe swore, though Chris had seen neither town nor traveller since midday, but Joe was the guide. Still, Chris doubted they would arrive before the morrow. Overhead, the clouds had started to once again gather in darkness. 

"Surely you thought something amiss when Kelly explained fucking to you," Joe blurted as they moved carefully down an overgrown path. Alistair had tossed Chris into the bushes at the top of it, which would sate him for the remainder of the day, Chris hoped. His lip still lightly bled. 

JC tilted his head. "Fucking?" 

Chris bit down and started the flow anew. _I will take Joe’s balls in his sleep_ , Chris thought, and began to ponder ways of revenge. _And his cock too_. Chris would make Joe a eunuch and hope that, finally, Joe’s mind would stray elsewhere, instead of always in the bed. 

"Aye. To fuck. To lie with, to bed, a lover," Joe said. "Chris thinks it distasteful." 

"We did it last night," JC said, "and the night before that one. I should think he enjoys it." 

"The word," Chris said in his own defence, "is vulgar. The act is not." 

"Aye, aye. Hold your tongue, man," Joe said. When Chris opened his mouth to protest, Joe waved away his comment with a raised hand. Again, Chris let his lips part, and Joe hissed at him. Gaily JC laughed, and Joe joined, though his tongue still flapped. "Surely you knew then." 

"She merely said a man came into a woman’s body and moved until he left his seed," JC said slowly, "but how, she never said. I was told it would hurt upon first entry, and that if Chris cared for me, it would get better with time." JC paused. "There is a way for men, is there not?" 

Joe chuckled lowly, and his face turned gleeful. Like a rogue, Joe grinned at Chris and lifted his eyebrows. Chris glanced at JC, whose mouth was twisted with a query. Shameless, the both of them, but Chris could not help the flush from spreading over his skin. JC knew, then, of that other way. _Buggery_ , Chris thought, _there, I said it. Buggery_. He knitted his lips in silence. 

"Aye, tell the boy how it is done, Kilpatrick," Joe said. 

_Aye_ , Chris thought, _his cock is gone tonight. I have a dull knife_. At Joe, he glared. 

Joe grinned. 

JC looked between them. "You are such men," he said finally. He still smiled, though he seemed exasperated. Chris could not blame him. The look in JC’s eyes bore resemblance to the frustration he suffered on his face when he stumbled through his reading. "As a woman, I was spoken to with a more cautious tongue. Women often are. You both were guilty of it." 

"Women have more intellect than we grant them," Joe said mournfully. 

JC smiled. "I much prefer the words we exchange now." 

Joe, at last, let it go, though his mind stayed in the gutter, filthy like the shit that lined the streets of towns. Yet, in his breeches, Chris’s cock stiffened with each lurid tale. Hot in the face, he stared at his hands and forced his mind to more pure thoughts. All he could fancy was the sight of JC in his bed, the delicate arc of his cock, the pert roundness of his small arse. 

There had been a time when Chris had believed carnal pleasure to be a sin. His few times with whores had weighed his soul and nearly sent him to Mass. Joe, who despite his roughness was a good and honest man, had claimed it to be natural and needed. Chris had called him a lust-hungry fool, but there was a truth in it that Chris had begun to understand. 

Chris rode on and stopped only when Joe whistled. They had dismounted by a large willow tree, the drooping branches nearly touching their heads. As he turned Alistair, the beast threw him. Rolling with it, he hit upon the grass and came to stop in a puddle. 

"Do you live?" JC asked. His head appeared above Chris. He blocked the clouds. 

"Aye, but I think I broke my arse," Chris replied. 

"I would kiss it well, but the sun still shines." 

JC offered his hand, and Chris took it. With a groan, JC heaved him to a stand. All of Chris wished to grab JC by the waist and pull him close enough to kiss, but as he said the sun still shone, however dim, as dusk settled. Instead, Chris built a fire then filled his belly with salted beef and stale bread. Joe’s mouth had quieted for the night, though he still hummed. 

Chris and JC set the tent, as Joe would not touch it. They settled with Chris in the middle. Blankets were shared in layers, and Chris had not even closed his eyes before sweat rose to his brow. Joe already snored. JC had not yet succumbed to sleep. Chris could tell from his breath. 

Chris rolled to his side. Under the blankets, JC settled a hand on his hip. They fitted together their mouths and touched their tongues. At once, Chris’s cock hardened and met another. Beside them, Joe slept on, loud and steady. Chris put one knee between JC’s thighs. Locked there, he kissed JC thoroughly and swallowed his heady moans. 

Under his shirt, JC touched him. Blind in the dark, JC’s fingers seemed to know the roads, and he touched with an intimate sureness. Chris’s own hand rubbed at JC beneath the seat of his breeches. The round of skin was hot and damp and small in his palm. Chris pulled him closer. They tangled beneath the blankets and covered each other with kisses. 

"Wait," JC said. 

Chris halted his kiss, though he licked at his own lips to keep them moist. 

"Joe?" JC ventured. 

From the dark, Joe muttered, "if I knew no better, I would think this your wedding night." 

Against Chris’s lips, JC smiled. One final time, JC kissed at the corner of his mouth. With his elbow, Chris poked at Joe then settled onto his back. He heaved a massive sigh. At once, they took their places against him, tucked under his arms. The heat flooded, and Chris, whose heat bloomed between his legs, closed his eyes and wished for dreams to sate him.


	40. Chapter 40

There were few things more lovely than a bright morning and the charm of JC’s voice as he read. Chris rode behind Joe and JC, the reins twisted like snakes around his fist. All his attention as a rider went to settling Alistair, who would startle Fleur if he had the chance. JC read perched on his horse’s back, the bible in his hands. Fleur never strayed from the path. 

"Give me the spelling," Joe said when JC paused. 

JC spoke each letter clearly. His lips twisted as he waited for Joe’s nod. Once it came, he set to reading it. It came slowly, and even when he said it, JC could not hear it. Chris knitted his own mouth shut. He knewthe word just ashe knew his aid was neither needed nor wanted. 

Chris hummed to himself as he rode to keep his mind busy. Alistair strayed from the path, and Chris let him. Once they had gone too far, he followed Joe’s directing shouts until he was near enough that his friends no longer blurred. Chris had always blamed his eyes for being unable to keep to a path and follow it home. It seemed like Joe could see the world, and Chris, nothing. 

Chris smelled the town before he saw it. The putrid scent of it clung to the wind and drifted down the hillside as they rode up it. He brought his hand to his face. People, and far too many of them, crowded into a small and filthy space. It settled melancholy in Chris’s heart. 

They dismounted and led their horses through town, wary of thieves and other vagabonds. Joe knew each step to take and the easiest way to walk it. They followed him to a house where he rapped on the door until it opened. A women, withered with age, spoke to him in a quiet tone. 

"She moved," Joe said simply. Chris felt a sigh slither from his mouth. Merrily, Joe laughed at him and grabbed Chris by the scruff of his neck. There, he shook him lightly. "Our bellies will be full tonight, and I have a babe to spoil. Come, back across the masses we go." 

They walked slowly to the other wall of the town and up a narrow road lined with houses. A group of boys eyed them before disappearing down a nearby alleyway. Again, Joe tapped on a doorway and another woman, younger than the first, closed the door after they exchanged words. 

"This is the place. It looks nice enough," Joe said. 

"I like the flowers in the window," JC said helpfully. 

Chris held his tongue. He knew Joe was not blind to the rot of poverty. 

As they tied the horses, the door opened. Britney’s golden hair was as loose as her bodice was tight. The rise of her breasts seemed nearly to touch her kind smile. First, she embraced Joe then Chris before turning a shy smile on JC, whom Joe introduced. She had not aged a day since Chris had last seen her. _Still too young to do what she does_ , Chris thought. 

"Where is my daughter?" Joe asked, craning his neck to look into the house. From where Chris stood, he could see three beautiful girls watching them. "Does she walk yet? Is her hair still dark like mine or has it lightened into yours? You look lovely." Joe touched her cheek. 

"Joe," Britney said, "speak privately with me a moment." 

Together, they stepped aside, but Chris already knew what she would say. The sad news was painted clearly in her brown eyes. Still, Chris watched them. Joe’s face remained light and eager. He tried to kiss her lips. _Always so willfully blind until the very end_ , Chris thought. Britney put her hand on Joe’s wrist, and behind him, Chris felt JC touch his own. 

It was at that touch when Joe’s face crumbled. It came fast like the shatter of glass, and Joe was on his knees, his face in his hands. Britney tried to comfort him, but Joe pulled from her. Grief bled from Joe like a deep wound. Chris could feel it splash against his own skin from where he stood. 

"Chris," JC said unsteadily. His fingers tightened on Chris’s wrist. 

"The babe is dead," Chris said, keeping his voice quiet. "I would think for some time." 

Chris could not force himself to turn from Joe’s sorrow. Chris owed him more than that. Behind him, JC pressed his face to Chris’s shoulder and held it there. The warmth of his breath dampened Chris’s shirt. _Too close_ , Chris thought, but did not make him move. 

Joe and Britney exchanged a sudden burst of heated words. Joe turned on his heel and walked quickly back to them. Blindly, Joe tore at his pack. A glass bottle fell from it and broke when it hit the ground. At once, the smell of spice wafted into Chris’s nose. Another tumbled, and Chris caught it with one hand. The other, he put on Joe’s back. 

"Be calm," Chris said. 

"They did not baptise her," Joe muttered. "And where is my bible? I know I had it." 

"I still carry it," JC said, rooting through his own pack. "Here." He held it out. 

"The priest would not do it," Britney said. "Joe, I promise you. I tried." 

Joe shrugged from her touch when she reached for him. Tears streaked down his cheeks, and he looked younger than Chris had ever remembered him. His voice was ragged with emotion. "You did not try hard enough. Did you not tell him she was the child of a noble man?" 

"She was also the daughter of a whore," Britney said, her tongue harsh like a whip. 

"And whose fault is that?" 

Britney slapped him across the face. Joe lifted his own hand to retaliate, but Chris caught it before he returned the hit. They, Chris and Joe, struggled a long moment before Joe pushed him away and snatched the bible from JC’s hand. Eyes wide with fright, JC stepped back and disappeared around Fleur’s rump. 

"What do you intend to do?" Chris asked. 

"Lord have mercy," Joe said as if he did not even hear it. Blindly, Joe stumbled forward, and Chris moved after him. He put his hands on Joe’s back to halt his steps, but Joe shoved him away. _Stupid with grief_ , Chris thought. Joe had never known loss in his life. 

"Where is the grave?" Chris asked, still moving. 

"Under the tree by the cemetery. They did not let me bury her inside it, but I put her close enough that God could watch her for me. Look for white flowers," Britney said. Tears wet her cheeks, and she stepped back into JC, who folded his hands over her shoulders. "I tried, Chris." 

"Aye, I know." Chris glanced to Joe, who still stumbled forward. "JC, stay with her?" 

"I will," JC said. 

Chris smiled his thanks then ran after Joe. He caught him at the mouth of the town’s wall and followed him outside. There, Joe looked around as if suddenly lost. Chris could see the tombstones of the old cemetery from where they stopped. Chris led him there to the tree. White flowers littered the fresh soil like snow. 

"They did not baptise her," Joe said again. This time, his voice was flat. He knelt by the grave and touched his fingers to the dirt. Chris settled aside him, careful not to touch him. Joe shook like he was cold. "They have sent her to hell or, worse, to purgatory. She is damned." 

"Portia was just a babe, Joe, not even a year old. You know she did no evil in her life." 

Joe laughed. "Aye. Just the bastard daughter of a whore and a man who turned from God’s calling so he could fuck every cunt he found. I should think God would happily welcome her into his kingdom. What need have I to worry? My thanks for that comfort. I shall sleep happily." 

"Hold your tongue, Joe," Chris warned. "You do wrong by her and me both." 

"If she," Joe said quietly. Joe reached for Chris’s hand, and Chris took it. "If she suffers, Chris. I could never forgive myself. I would give my life if I could take it back. Tell me she does not suffer. Tell me that her scoundrel of a father has not sent her to suffer for eternity." 

Whatever words Joe wished to hear, Chris could not offer. His own heart could not bear to hear such things from Joe’s mouth. Instead, Chris folded his fingers over Joe’s and squeezed. That seemed to open the wells, for Joe fell into Chris’s arms and wept. His tears came rough and open, and Chris held him as best he knew, stroking his back and kissing his hair. Joe seemed like the boy Chris had never known him as. 

How long they sat there, Chris did not know. In time, the sun started to dip, and Joe’s tears dried. They stayed clasped under the tree until, finally, Joe reached for his dropped bible. The sun would vanish completely in a quarter of an hour. He would not be able to see the pages. 

"It grows late," Chris said. 

"Pray with me?" Joe asked. 

Chris pinched his lips, and Joe asked again, his voice more urgent, 

"Pray with me?" 

"The sun is nearly gone. You cannot read by moonlight." 

"Like you, I know it all by heart. You know I do." Joe gripped Chris by the forearm and looked at him. Joe’s eyes were lined with red, his face still damp with tears. _I do not recognise him_ , Chris thought. Joe squeezed him. "Pray with me. Chris, on our friendship, please." 

"I will stay," Chris promised. "As long as you need me, to the very end, I will stay." 

Together, they gripped hands and knelt side by side in the cool Irish soil. Overhead, the wind blew leaves from the trees, and underfoot, the petals caught that same burst and raced away. Chris closed his eyes, and with Joe close against him, they prayed for all their souls to save.


	41. Chapter 41

Britney warmed some leftover milk from supper and made him sit at the table. The other girls, for they were all younger than he, offered him biscuits and cake. He accepted the biscuits but declined the cake, and assured them all he could butter his own. _They do not seem like whores_ , JC thought, but he knew they must be. Still, they seemed healthier than the other one. 

"Are you settled for the night?" 

JC nodded. 

"Then I must take my leave." 

"Do you need an escort?" JC asked. "Chris told me to stay with you." 

"Aye, and do what, pray tell? Watch me work?" 

When JC blanched, she merely smiled at him and gathered her coat. He had meant no harm, but when he opened his mouth to offer his apologies, she had already ushered the other girls out the door. He sipped at his milk and reached for a biscuit. Britney appeared again. 

"I did not think," JC began as she said, 

"There is a room at the top of the stairs. One of the girls tidied it for you men. Help yourself to anything that will fill your belly. And do not worry about visitors tonight. We will find our own rooms to board." She paused a moment, her fingers at the buttons of her coat. At once, her face lightened. "And believe me, I took no offense." 

"I truly meant none," JC insisted. 

"Rest easy," she said. "I know." 

Britney bid another farewell and raced from the house. Quickly, JC drank the rest of his milk then put his biscuits on a plate. He gathered his own pack and the ones he had pulled from Chris and Joe’s horses. Slowly, he walked up the narrow staircase and slipped into the room. It was small with one large bed and a square window. The air smelled stale. 

He set the biscuits on the bedside table. Sitting down upon the soft mattress, he pulled off his boots. They fell heavy to the wood floor. JC then curled his legs to his belly and rested the plate on his knees. He began to eat. Warm melted butter dripped down his chin. 

JC wondered if he should not wander outside and try to offer comfort where he could. It seemed useless to stay in this house, but he would not know where to look for them. He ate the last of the biscuits then licked clean his fingers. 

There was a basin of water by the door, so he took off his shirt and bathed. His skin felt taut with exhaustion, stretched impossibly tight over his stiff muscles. Between his legs, he felt heavy with ache. At once, JC chastised himself for thinking of it when Joe was in pain. Frustrated with himself, JC sat upon the bed again and opened his pack. 

JC knew, if he tried, he would likely be able to read his book. Most of it, he thought, if not all. There was no hiding it from Joe, who let JC read the bible and avoid his own book. JC insisted he needed more lessons. In truth, he only needed time and bravery to boost him. 

Gingerly, JC fingered the edges of the cover. The dust, he brushed from the leather. With his thumb, he fluttered the pages, catching only a shadowy blur instead of a story. JC liked his life as it was. What need had he to disrupt it again? Did it even still matter? 

His name was JC, not Joshua. JC had hoped it would have grown to fit him, but the more he thought on it, the more it seemed to belong to another man. A married man, with a wife and babes, living on borrowed lands, sick with hunger and disease. Joshua had died a lifetime ago, and JC had grown on without him. That was all JC needed to know. JC had lived on and not that other one, that forgotten one. JC put the book back where he could not be tempted. 

JC found himself with tears on his cheek as time passed. He had never met Portia, but JC did not need to know her to understand Joe’s love for her and his pain in losing her. It seemed unbearably sad, and the more he thought on it, the sadder it became. In time, he cried himself to sleep, his head cradled in a soft down pillow. 

JC woke when Chris came into the room. A sliver of the sun peeked in through the window, but it was otherwise dim. Chris stripped his shirt and walked to the basin, where he wet the cloth and began to wash himself. Heavy with sleep, JC rose and took the cloth from his hands. Gently, he bathed Chris’s shoulders and back before turning him around. 

"How is he?" 

Chris shook his head. He took the cloth from JC’s hands and turned from him. Chris moved to the window, where he stood with arms folded over belly. JC approached him again and kissed the nape of his neck. His hands spread on Chris’s back. Again, Chris shrugged from his touch and went to sit on the bed. Again, JC followed him and settled beside him. 

"Will you give me space?" 

"I only wish to help," JC said. "To be there for you as you are for Joe. Let me." 

Chris turned from him again. He did not stand. Instead, he lay down and brought an arm over his head. JC lay behind him, fitting his knees behind the bend of Chris’s, and slung an arm over his belly. If they were caught. JC would not think of it. Chris needed his strength, his love. 

"Sorrow makes him cruel," Chris finally said. JC pressed his mouth to the round of Chris’s shoulder and kissed him. "The words he uttered to me. Has he lied to me all these years, or have I let him lie? I tell myself it is the grief speaking, that he did not mean it." 

"He is scared for her," JC said. He lifted a hand to brush at Chris’s hair. His temples were damp with sweat or morning dew. JC plucked the droplets with his fingertips. "He worries he is wrong, but I do not think he is. Is Joe not the wisest man you know?" 

"Aye." 

"What he says in mourning, it comes only from pain, and it is only brief. Look at me," JC said and put his hand on Chris’s belly until Chris rolled to his back. "Do not let his moment of weakness fill you with doubt and fear. Please. Use this to bring you strength." JC folded his hand over the pendent around Chris’s neck. _My pendent_ , JC thought, and put his mouth to it. 

"I wish I was a different man," Chris said and hid his face again. JC pulled at his arm, but it would not budge. Instead, JC put his head upon Chris’s chest and listened to his breath. "A braver man who does not run from his desires, from his life. I wish I came to you unspoiled." 

"I take you as you are," JC said. "That is all I want." 

Chris put his hand into JC’s hair. "I am so tired of being afraid." 

"Then do not let the fear take you. What is there to dread?" 

"Hell," Chris said simply. 

"Are we all not headed there by your logic? Me, and you, and Joe. Let us not forget Justin or Lance, or all of Joe’s daughters. I imagine I will see Kelly, Britney and Danielle there, too. I doubt there will be room for us all. Show me one man without sin, Chris," JC said. 

Chris heaved a weary sigh. "You know I cannot." 

JC kissed the rise of muscle over Chris’s heart then nuzzled his cheek over the steady thump below. The hand in JC’s hair tugged, and JC let himself be led by the curls to Chris’s warm mouth. Gently, they kissed. The creak of the floor in the hall stopped their lips, and they parted quickly. The door opened, and Joe came into the room. His face was still wet. 

JC stood and took Joe’s damp shirt from him. He knelt and removed each boot from Joe’s foot, giving his shoulder as a place for Joe’s hand to steady himself. JC washed Joe’s face then dried it gently with a dry cloth. When new tears came, JC wiped those, too. 

Chris took Joe by the hand and led him to the bed. They settled Joe in the middle, and between them, they held him. He gave them no words, and they demanded none. JC laced his fingers with Chris’s over Joe’s belly, and together they waited until sleep claimed Joe. Once Joe was gone to slumber, JC quickly tumbled and knew Chris was close behind him.


	42. Chapter 42

They stayed that one night then left. Joe’s grief was tangible, and it worsened with Britney near him. He apologised for almost slapping her face, and she accepted his words, but guilt still fogged his eyes. JC could not bear to see it. Joe seemed irrevocably fractured. 

Chris gave Britney half the coins that the priest and his cousin had given them. He had tried to give the whole of it, but Britney would not take it. She and Chris spoke with an intimate familiarity. JC had not even thought to ask if she was a friend of his and not Joe’s. In his head, JC found it hard to imagine Chris with friends. He acted like he had never needed them in life. 

_Until now_ , JC thought. Chris seemed almost desperate for companionship these days, like once the well had been cracked, it overflowed and would not stop. It seemed the better way. No man should be made to be alone. JC would make sure Chris never was again. 

JC rubbed a hand over his chin as he watched them. It itched with a new growth of prickly hair. There seemed to be more of it, though Chris claimed that was untrue. No garden sprouted that fast, Chris said, and no beard would either. Chris’s own seemed like a weed, then. 

They left at midday, bellies round with food and another pack full. Joe rode ahead. When they caught up, he only pushed harder until he was gone again. JC and Chris stayed well back and let him grieve in private. They spoke with each other and told happy stories. 

"Where do we head?" JC asked when the chatter lapsed. 

"I would think to Kelly," Chris said. He kept his golden eyes on Joe in the distance. "Perhaps his father, but I know he never approved of Joe’s willingness to give his name to his bastard babes. I think that visit will be pushed to a time when Joe’s sorrow is not so strong." 

"I feel it like my own." 

"Aye. Me too." 

They rested for lunch by the riverside. JC took the horses to drink and played with them until they grew hungry and ignored him. Still, he stayed with them and let Chris and Joe alone. He had been terrified of Joe in that moment he nearly slapped Britney, but it had been less the strike of skin than the tone of voice that frightened him. JC had never been hit in his life and had only come close once. That had been with Chris. 

Chris came to him with fresh bread and stayed while he ate. JC arched his back until Chris put a hand on it and rubbed in circles. Two men on horseback passed them, and Chris stole back his touch. JC sighed and nibbled the rest of the bread until only crumbs were left. Deftly, JC licked his fingers clean. Face set with intent, Chris watched him. The sun caught his eyes and made them golden. 

They set out again. Still, Joe stayed ahead of them, head bowed. Every so often, he would lift his hand and touch his face. JC could hardly stand to look at him. He kept his eyes on Chris instead, whose own handsome face provided the sweetest distraction. 

"Britney was very kind," JC said. 

"Aye. She is an actress by trade. A good one, too. She writes her own plays, though they never let her publish. I think you would like them. Like you, she is a natural storyteller," Chris said. The fondness in his voice was clear, his face bright with pride and affection. 

"But she is a whore." 

"Whoring keeps her fed," Chris said simply. "She does what she must." 

"You are old friends, then." 

"In a way," Chris said. He slanted his head and looked sidelong in JC’s direction. At once, JC’s stomach dipped uncomfortably. Chris wore the face he always did when he felt the need to confess his supposed crimes. "She has bedded me from time to time on Joe’s coin." 

"I knew you were not a virgin," JC blurted. It seemed the proper thing to say, but out in the world, against his ears, it seemed ridiculous. Heat on his face, JC ducked his head. "I only mean that I figured you had been to bed before me." 

"Never had I wanted to stay there before you," Chris said quietly. "I thought as a man. I thought it proper to bed a lady and establish myself. The times I have are few and far between. I never enjoyed it as anything more than a release of my tensions, to refresh my seed." 

"I used my hand," JC confessed. 

"Your hand?" 

JC nodded and rubbed at his hot cheeks hoping to cool them. It was not embarrassment that prickled his skin but the illicit thrill of such candid talk and the thought of Chris’s manhood. "Joe told me of it. I went to him. There were ways, he said, to relieve myself of that ache." 

"Do you still?" Chris let the words linger. His own cheeks looked pink. 

"No, though I fear I may need to again should I be denied your company much longer," JC admitted. Once again, his face flared with heat, and a delicious shiver danced down his spine. At once, he felt terrible for thinking of it while Joe sorrowed, but still his body ached with desire. 

They shared a secret smile and said no more, but JC’s mind lingered on it. He wondered how it felt, to be with a woman, though he still felt no need to try it. Women were kind and sweet, but men were lovely and handsome, especially without their clothes. How far JC had come, from a terror of his own manhood to embracing it and the pleasures it offered. 

"You think desirous thoughts," Chris said softly. "I can tell by the rose of your cheeks." 

"You think on the same," JC replied. 

"Aye," Chris agreed. The wanton glint in his eyes flickered openly. 

JC smiled at Chris then chewed on his lower lip. Chris arched an eyebrow, and a smirk played merrily across his mouth as if Chris knew already what lewd words had JC by the tongue. Heat flushed through his skin, and JC swallowed, his throat dry. 

"Do you wish to come inside me?" JC asked. 

At once, Chris’s face flared to fire, but he did not seem angry. _He is so shy about lovers’s acts_ , JC thought. Though he was the virgin, it often seemed he led their blind forays into pleasure. Chris learned quickly and willingly, but never did he tread first into lustful discovery. 

JC let Chris mull it over in silence. Chris’s face never lost its crimson hue. From his look, JC could not tell what he thought of it. Chris kept his hands over the front of his breeches, hiding that from JC, too. It seemed a natural thing to do. Joe had known of it, and Chris. Cautiously, JC had touched around down there and thought it pleasant enough. They would fit. 

That night, Chris could scarcely look at him across the fire. Whenever their eyes did meet, Chris looked strangely upon him before turning away. Inwardly, JC felt his head ache. _If I have stumbled again with him_ , JC thought. There needed to be rules to love Chris Kilpatrick. If there were already, JC feared he had somehow missed them. 

When Chris disappeared into the night to relieve himself, JC meant to follow him, but Joe took his wrist as he passed by the trunk of an old tree where he sat. Joe’s brow crinkled with worry. Immediately, JC set his fingers to soothe it. Joe bowed into him and let his eyes drift shut. 

"I frightened you yesterday, and for that I offer apologies," Joe said. "I am not that man." 

"I would never have stayed had you been him," JC replied. There in the chilled grass, he knelt and took Joe’s hand in his own. Joe looked down upon him with open pain in his eyes. "I wish I could have met Portia before she left this world too soon. Was she pretty?" 

"As pretty as all my daughters." 

"I never doubted your love for her. You never hid it," JC said. 

"I barely knew her," Joe whispered. His eyes glistened wetly in the dim glow of the firelight. Without warning, Joe leaned forward. In his arms, JC caught him and held him. "I have left children and spoiled women across the whole of Ireland. All for what?" 

"For love." 

Joe forced a bitter laugh, but JC laid his fingers over his mouth before he could speak. 

"A woman has needs like you do," JC said quietly. This man who looked like Joe still seemed a stranger, but the song of his breath came the same, so JC knew it must be him. "If a woman shared your bed, she did it of her own choosing. They are not stupid, and you are not the type of man to force a lady. Chris would never forgive you if you were." 

"Chris forgives more of me than I deserve." 

"And you, of him. I envy that, the love you hold for each other. We are still new friends, him and I, and even newer lovers, but you. _Chris_ would never have stayed if you were that man you fear. You know he takes such things to heart. He would have hated you from sight, and he loves you. If you will not listen to me, open yourself to him." 

"When did you grow so wise?" 

JC felt a gentle laugh tumble from his mouth. "I have spent enough time with you and Chris to learn something of this world. I am wise because you have made me wise and Chris has forced me to be wise. He is not easy to love as you well know." 

"Aye," Joe agreed. Eyes still lowered, he chuckled and shook his head. JC smiled at him though Joe’s gaze seemed lost in the earth. Still, JC squeezed his hand. "It fills me with joy to think of your happiness together. Your love for him, there are days I think I can see it." 

"Chris would fret to hear you say that," JC said. 

Joe expelled a puff of breath. "I merely think I know you well enough to recognise it. As for the world, I doubt they notice. Men in love, they would think it impossible or worse, perverse. More is the pity for them to be denied such hope for their own lives. I know I feel it for mine." 

"You are too kind." 

"Too honest, more like it. These tears fill my head with truths best left as secrets between old friends," Joe said. With soft lips, he pressed a kiss to the knuckles on JC’s hand. JC laced that same hand into Joe’s hair and held him by the back of the head until his shoulders stiffened. "I hold you from Chris." 

"How willing he is to be found by me, I am unsure. I think perhaps I frightened him today," JC confessed. He could not keep the sigh from his voice, for Joe lifted an eyebrow until JC spoke again. Still, he offered his words with great reluctance. It did not seem the proper topic between them when Joe was still sorrowing. Joe, however, seemed intent to hear. 

"I offered myself to him as a woman would to a man." 

Slightly, a smile did touch Joe’s lips. "I fear few women consent to that." 

"Have you come across any in your day?" JC asked. 

"Some," Joe admitted. A grin touched his lips, and at once, he was the Joe that JC knew so well. "A woman’s quim provides slickness when properly teased, but with an arse, you must provide your own. Oil would work, or butter. If it slides between your fingers, it will do. Otherwise, there could be pain and damage that stays with you long after the pleasure has faded." 

"And there is much pleasure?" 

"For the man who takes it, with time and practice, aye. For the man who gives it, well. Think of a hand in a fist or the round of lips then imagine it tighter around your cock." 

"Oh," JC said. 

"Aye." Joe smiled lightly again. "Now off with you to settle his skittish nerves." 

When JC stood, he saw that Chris had already come back to them. Wordlessly, they set the tent together. They let Joe enter first and warm himself with the blankets. The cold touched him more than it did them. For the night, they would sleep with him in the middle again and keep him warm with their love for him. 

"Someday," Chris said as JC passed him, headed to make sure the horses were set for the long hours of dark. JC stopped where the words first hit him and let Chris touch his face. "Not now, but soon enough. When my body feels it right. Right now, it does not." 

"We have time," JC assured him. "When you wish to come into me, I will let you." 

"And if you wish the same, I will give myself to you." 

They kissed then. It felt as though water came into JC’s throat after a long drought. Greedily, he drank it until he was swollen but still thirsty. Another fire flickered in the distance, close enough for spies. That they gave so much, even in dark, was ripe with daring. With great reluctance, JC pulled from him. Hands clasped, they returned to the tent, and there they slept with Joe between them.


	43. Chapter 43

They travelled slowly for the next string of days, the weather as strong against them as Joe’s exhaustion. Chris doubted he had slept at all, for whenever he had opened his eyes from sleep, Joe’s quiet breath had betrayed his consciousness. Chris could do nothing but offer what little comfort he had to give him. In the daylight, Joe’s head was heavy with sombre thoughts. 

Chris and JC did all they could to lift his spirits, though JC was best at it. He sang a merry epic about three travelling men who had adventures together. Chris listened to the whole of it patiently, though it was obvious JC created it as he went. Joe sang a few verses when JC stumbled upon his words. Even Chris added his own in time, and they made a game of it. For every verse Joe sang about Chris’s small cock, Chris added his own praising the length and girth of it. JC defended him also, though his verses were more like romantic ballads. 

"You cannot rhyme ‘love’ with ‘love,’" Chris said after both Joe and JC had done it. 

"Says whom, Kilpatrick?" Joe replied. 

"Any common bard, is whom. Pick another, you cheating scoundrel." 

"We outnumber you," Joe said. Behind him, JC grinned so big that his eyes tightened into slits, but he nodded. In his throat, Chris growled. It was bad enough that Joe had spent their entire friendship outwitting Chris. Now, JC sided with him, too. "Love for love." 

Chris rolled his eyes but consented. He offered a smile to JC to assure him that he was merely being difficult. JC’s face betrayed no surprise at it. _He knows me now_ , Chris thought, and felt his heart fill with joy. It did not make him safe nor did it save him, but it lightened his spirit. 

Their game lasted through the mist of rain that came in afternoon and the bitter chill of wind that followed near suppertime. In the distance, Chris saw what he thought was a house. A puff of smoke came from the chimney, streaking the dimming sky. Joe had halted his tongue abruptly. Chris’s eyes did not betray him. He only hoped Kelly could patch Joe’s fractured heart. 

They tied the horses with Kelly’s gelding, which was an old and tired beast. Joe hovered there and reluctance covered him. Even JC hung back, rubbing a hand over his face. _Kelly knows him as a woman_ , Chris thought suddenly. He was a fool for not realising it sooner. JC’s first female friend, who had filled in the missing pieces of JC’s womanhood, did not know him. 

"Ach," Chris said. "If the two of you will not go to see her, I will out of hunger." 

Chris marched to the cabin and rapped politely on the door. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Joe and JC follow him. Behind the heavy wood, he heard movement, so he stepped back, and Joe replaced him. Joe’s arms hung limply at his side as if he expected to be turned away. 

The door opened, and Kelly peeked through the narrow slit. At once, Joe plowed forward and grabbed her into his arms. She went to him with a shout of delight, burying her happy face into his neck. Still, Chris’s breath caught when Joe pulled back abruptly and fell to his knees. 

"Is it mine?" Joe asked. 

"Whose else would it be, you fool?" Kelly asked. Tugging his ear, she laughed. 

Joe put his hands on her belly, which was round and heavy with child. In that moment, Chris thought his own heart would burst. Never before had he felt anything but disappointment to learn Joe had sired another babe. The joy that swelled in him came with the deepest surprise. 

"Is she to have a child?" JC asked quietly. When Chris nodded, JC took his hand and squeezed it. Chris gripped him back. Nothing did he want more than to kiss JC’s smiling lips. Instead, they could only hold hands. It was daring enough that they did so in daylight. 

They gave Joe the time he needed, staying back as Joe kept his face to Kelly’s swollen stomach. Kelly threaded her fingers through Joe’s hair. Joe stayed on his knees and rested his hands on her wide hips. The babe, Brianna, peeked through the door, a thumb between her lips. 

Joe took her and stood with her in his arms. She looked at him blankly like she had forgotten his face. _She has_ , Chris thought. Still, Joe showed her such love that she responded to his wide smile and let him pepper her round face with kisses. Joe kept an arm around Kelly. 

When Joe waved them closer, they went. Chris embraced Kelly warmly then took JC’s elbow with his hand and led him forward. He went, though Chris felt the reluctance in his step. 

"You remember JC," Chris said. 

"I do. I hardly recognised him at first without the veil, but I remember those beautiful blue eyes." She moved to hug him, and he shied from her, but between Chris’s grip on his arm and Kelly’s sheer willfulness, she caught him in her arms. "You make a lovely man," she whispered, a hand on his face. "I am not surprised by it." 

"With permission, I will tell you the whole story," Joe promised. 

"You may," JC replied. He smiled wetly at them both, and Chris steadied him lest he fall over. Kelly offered a handkerchief, and JC wiped at his eyes. The relief bled through him in the same way Joe’s grief had days before. Chris could feel it on his skin. 

Joe cleared his throat. "Chris?" 

"Aye?" 

"Your permission," Joe said. "Will you grant it?" 

With a sudden jolt, Chris realised Joe meant to tell Kelly to whole of it. Of not only JC’s discovered manhood but of them as lovers. Chris trusted Kelly because Joe placed the whole of his trust in her. His belly still knotted to think of her reaction. Too long luck had been with them. 

Kelly caught him before he could give any answer and offered supper for their empty bellies. She invited JC to help her, and he went happily. They took Brianna with them, held in the round of JC’s arms and still suckling her thumb. She was bigger than Chris remembered. 

"She would never tell a soul," Joe said once they were alone. 

"No. Aye. I know," Chris said. 

Joe lifted his brow. 

"I do," Chris insisted. 

Joe put a hand on Chris’s shoulder. Their eyes met and stayed locked. Joe’s were lined with red from tears Chris had not noticed he shed. "I will not force your permission if you are unwilling, and I will not break your trust in me. I merely want you to be comfortable here." 

"We will stay awhile, then?" 

"Aye," Joe said. "I want to see this babe born. Kelly thinks I have sired another girl." 

At that, Chris grinned, and Joe folded him into a hug. _How far we have come together_ , Chris thought, and squeezed round Joe’s waist. It seemed just yesterday that they had first met, two scruffy almost-men in a pub of irate Irishmen. Chris still smiled to think of it. 

"Tell her," Chris said. "I give my permission." 

Joe laughed into his ear. "She already thinks you fancy men." 

Chris sighed. "And why would she think that, Lord Joseph?" 

"My lady is far more intelligent than you, Kilpatrick. In fact, I would think you were the last to know in this case," Joe replied merrily. He tugged on Chris’s beard then ducked when Chris sought to do the same to him. Joe’s face softened. "And my thanks to you. I said things to you that were unkind, and you allowed me that weakness. I meant none of them." 

"Aye." Chris folded a hand over Joe’s wrist where it still rested on his shoulder. They stood close for two men, but Chris could not seem to let go of him. His presence calmed his nerves, which frayed for reasons unknown. "I knew that." 

"You are a better man than even I hoped, Chris Kilpatrick. My faith did waver." 

"I knew that, too." 

They embraced again. Joe cinched so tight that Chris felt his breath catch in his throat, yet still, he could not let him go. The solid weight of him, the strength in his arms, the steady rise of his chest. Chris sealed each of them in his mind where his memory would guard them. 

"This babe does not replace the lost one," Chris mumbled. 

"For the rest of my days, there is a crack in my heart. I know she does not." 

Chris nodded then looked up at him. _He has aged_ , Chris thought, though he knew Joe was still a year his junior and forever would be. Still, he looked battered. There were dark bruises under his eyes since he had not slept. Though his face seemed light, Chris knew it masked pain. 

With the leaves rustling around them, caught in a high wind, Joe bent his head and fitted his mouth over Chris’s. A gentle kiss, one born not from a need for pleasure but for comfort. Chris let Joe have his time. When they parted, Joe smiled sheepishly at him. 

"The last kiss we shared was no memory to keep," Joe said. 

"I will keep this one instead," Chris promised. 

They turned together and, without another word, went inside.


	44. Chapter 44

For two nights, Joe and Kelly forwent sleep to be with each other. Chris could hear them murmuring when the rest of the world slept. The sound leaked through the door, where they had sealed themselves. When Joe first begged two nights of peace and privacy, Chris had hissed, 

"She is heavy with child. Surely you do not mean to bed her!" 

"Contrary to what you believe, Kilpatrick, my cock does not control my head," Joe had said. He had not seemed angry, only amused, and he spoke it proudly in front of Kelly, whom he kissed at any moment he could. Chris’s own lips ached to do the same to JC, though he felt shy. 

Joe and Kelly seemed like newlyweds in the way they scarcely let the other out of sight. In the waking hours, Joe stayed near her. Often, he would spread his big hands on her belly and feel the babe tumble about inside it. JC had put his own fingers on the roundness of Kelly’s stomach. His eyes held a guileless wonder each time the babe fluttered against his touch. 

Chris and JC slept with Brianna between them. The first night, before either of them had toppled into rest, she had come from her own bed to JC’s side. In the dim light, Chris had watched her lift her small hand and pull at his shirt. Without word, he merely picked her up and put her between them. The air was bitterly chill at night. Chris could not blame her, yet terrible visions of rolling over her and stealing her breath while he slept plagued him. He stayed tired. 

The exhaustion he felt to his bones. Even if he had slept, he knew it would still hang over him like a veil. Chris needed JC’s comfort, his love, and they scarcely touched at all, save to kiss in the dark. Those times, JC folded his hand over Brianna’s eyes and blocked her sight. Chastely, they did embrace each time. It did not help sate his need in the slightest. 

On the third day, Chris thought his legs had turned into tree trunks. Rain poured from the heavens from morning to night. Even with the stove lit, Chris was still cold. They filled the days with games and songs. Joe kept Brianna on his lap and smothered her with love at every chance. 

"Stop your moping," Joe said at dinner that third night. His hands rested on Chris’s shoulders from behind. They swayed a moment before Joe put his mouth at Chris’s ear. "You will have your time with him soon enough. You wear the look of a man ready to ravage him." 

Chris let his eyes roll, but he did not deny it. His skin ached to feel JC’s hands on him, to kiss his mouth and be kissed in turn. Chris lasted through dinner and the pie that Kelly presented after before his hand slid to JC’s thigh. The heat and strength of it steadied his lust. When JC put a hand over his, Chris felt himself calmed. 

They stayed late into the night telling Kelly of the journey they had travelled since they had left her house two seasons prior. As they spoke, Brianna slept with her head on Joe’s shoulder, his hand spread over her back. Their words stayed hushed to keep her in dreams. The melody of their voices had the same effect on Chris himself. 

When he woke, the room in which he slept was lit with early morning sun. _Kelly’s room_ , Chris thought. It was small but quaint, manuscripts of poetry stacked on the floor around the bed. Beside him, JC lay on his back. His curls half-covered the serene glow of his face. 

Propped by one elbow, Chris traced the line of JC’s cheek with his finger. The bone was bold and sharp. Chris had seen little art in his life, but JC reminded him of it. _A work of art_ , Chris thought. God had been striving for beauty the day he made him, of this Chris was sure. 

_I speak blasphemy_ , Chris thought, yet he felt it was true. Fear that had once overwhelmed him seemed lulled. God had not struck him down. Those years spent cowering had been misery. It was only now, when Chris struggled to look beyond what he had been taught, that his faith did not hold him down a hand span from hell. Chris’s belief did not harm his heart but eased it. 

_God has made me as I am,_ Chris thought. It seemed such a simple thing to think. 

At once, Chris’s head seemed overwhelmed with realisation. _I am not wrong_ , Chris thought. What Joe had known all along, what JC knew instinctively, Chris only understood right then. The light that spilled in from the window seemed to lighten his head. The world seemed bright. 

Though he was lost in sleep, Chris kissed JC’s mouth. It was as if Chris meant to breathe the glorious truth he had discovered into JC. Sighing beautiful happiness, JC opened for him, though his eyes stayed shut. He tasted sweet like honey. With his lips, Chris pressed over JC’s throat and down across his shoulders. When JC came fully awake, Chris felt it. 

"Some clumsy succubus rouses me from sleep," JC murmured. Beneath Chris’s arm, JC stretched his body. It was long and lean. While once it had been a milky white, JC’s skin had turned golden from the sun when they had posed as farmers. 

"I fear I am no woman," Chris said. He kissed across JC’s breast, suckling his skin where it puckered. At the insistent pull of his mouth, JC arched from the bed and buried a hand in the long tendrils of Chris’s hair. "No human or demon would mistake me for one." 

Laughter sang from JC’s throat. "A confused incubus then, who has wandered in looking for Kelly." 

"Not confused," Chris said. With his hands, he touched over the flat rippling of JC’s belly. Muscles tightened under his palm, and Chris rubbed at them thrice before slipping into JC’s breeches. There, he felt hair on his fingertips and the damp heat of JC’s arousal. 

"No?" JC asked. His legs fell open. His hips lifted. 

"No. This incubus knows where he is and why he came. He has seen this man, bathed in sunlight and smiling in his sleep, and could not keep himself from ravaging him. This incubus is no fool," Chris said. Into JC’s mouth, Chris swiped his tongue where another twisted wetly. 

Chris moved his hand between JC’s legs and kissed his mouth in time to their dance. JC clung to him as if helpless to his desire, so Chris took him as best he knew with his hand. When he was freed from his breeches, JC shivered. Desperately, JC pushed at his grip and demanded all the delicious pleasure Chris could offer by his touch. 

It was when JC lost his sensuous rhythm that Chris knew he walked the edge. Only then did Chris bend his head and trail down JC’s body to take him into his mouth. Chris still felt clumsy doing it. He was like a virgin in that he tried too hard. It seemed not to matter at all. The bitter tang of JC’s seed lit his tongue when he came off. Chris swallowed all that JC gave him. 

JC scarcely rested a moment before he rolled Chris to his back. The heavy weight of JC’s body slipped across his hips, resting the most of it on his hard cock. In his throat, Chris groaned. With nimble fingers, JC tugged Chris free of his shirt. They tangled to get Chris out of his breeches. When Chris reached to bare him, JC caught his fingers and kissed each one. 

"Let me see you," Chris said. It had been too long since they had loved in the light. 

"Let me see _you,_ " JC echoed. 

JC’s eyes, which were at once cool and hot, settled on him. The hunger of his desire glittered in the blue of them. Chris felt his flesh heat. Twisting, he tried to turn over, but JC caught his wrists and held them at Chris’s sides. JC slid down his legs and settled over his knees. 

"I have caught an incubus in my bed," JC murmured. He bent and put his mouth on Chris’s neck where he sucked. Teeth scraped over Chris’s skin, and Chris shivered. He tried to escape, but JC laid the whole of himself over Chris. "And he tries to escape from me." 

"You tease this poor creature," Chris muttered. Again, he lifted his hips, but it did not free him. Instead, his cock pressed against JC’s chest and drew a gasp from his mouth. "He only wishes to be with you before he grows old, withers and dies." 

JC laughed and nipped at his throat where the pendent hung. Between the snap of his teeth, JC caught it and tugged a moment. When it would not budge, he licked over Chris’s throat instead. "I think this impatient creature is no demon at all but a desperate man posing as one." 

"This man is indeed desperate," Chris admitted. His cock burned from the sweet rub of it against JC’s skin. If his hands were free, he would grab it himself and snuff the fire that raged. "Will you please touch me? Keep your breeches if you will, but this pleasure maddens my head." 

"Then let me take your insanity from you with my mouth," JC said. He licked a tongue across Chris’s lips then slipped downward. His hands stayed on Chris’s wrist and bound him. As he moved, JC hummed. It was a song Chris recognised, not for its word but for its melody. Slowly sensual, Chris shivered to hear it. 

Thankfully, JC wasted no time taking Chris’s cock into his mouth. At once, a wave of red-hot relief flowed over Chris’s flesh. Though he murmured mild protest when JC did not keep him there in that sweet inferno, the tongue that lapped at him did so expertly. There was no part of Chris’s body that JC feared. It was there for discovery, for comfort, and the more JC found in Chris, the more he grew into his own long, lithe body. Chris let him go where he wanted. 

When Chris came off, he found himself surprised at the intensity of it. He felt the tingle fan from his fingers right down to each of his toes. His skin, slippery with sweat, seemed coated with lust like butter over bread. JC came into his arms there, that same delicious slickness on him. His breeches had been shucked. Legs twisted together, they kissed until they had no breath and then they kissed more. 

They had come again like that when Joe entered the room. The height of their pleasure was fresh, and Chris had still been kissing JC’s lips. At once, Chris brought the blankets over them and peered out. Joe grinned brightly and sat upon the end of the bed. He looked rested. 

"I hope I waited until you had both been laid once. I put my ear to the door, but you are true male lovers. I could not hear a sound," Joe said. In his hand, he held a rag. Chris reached a naked arm for it. It was warmly damp. Under the blanket, Chris mopped JC’s belly then his own. 

"You did," JC assured him. Chris felt JC’s hand settle on his thigh. "Twice." 

"Aye. Then that makes me feel like less a heartless rogue, though I remember many a time when Chris dragged me from bed, naked as a babe, and denied me my pleasure." A fond roll of laughter fell from Joe’s throat. "These days, it seems another man’s adventure, not mine." 

"I can assure you that it is not," Chris said. 

"Aye. I know," Joe said. Through the blankets, he squeezed Chris’s foot. Chris narrowed his eyes. _His eyes are not as merry as his tongue_ , Chris thought. When Joe slanted a look at him, Chris knew Joe had seen his face and read it for himself. "But I am no longer that man." 

Chris swallowed the lump that lifted in his throat. On his thigh, JC’s hand still rested. 

"For once, I find myself without words," Joe admitted after silence had lingered between them. Chris kept his own mouth shut. He would offer Joe no help in what he meant to do. "I go no further than this. I settle here. I have asked for Kelly’s hand, and she has given it to me." 

"She is to be your wife?" JC asked. 

"Aye. She grants me that honour, though I do not deserve it," Joe said. Again, he squeezed Chris’s foot. Chris pulled it from him and turned his head. Tears beaded his eyes, and he brought a hand to cover them. _I am stupid to cry for this_ , Chris thought. 

"She loves me, and I, her. This child, _our_ child, she will be born in wedlock. Chris," Joe said. Joe reached for him, but Chris tugged his arm away. An anger raged in him, that was it. An anger so deep that it showed itself as sorrow and tears. "I have not tossed you aside." 

"I know that," Chris said. He kept his voice plain and steady, like he was a brave man. If he had his breeches on, he would leave this room. If Joe had not been so smart to corner him naked, Chris could run as far from Joe’s words as he could. He kept his hand over his eyes. 

Joe continued speaking, though his voice carried none of its usual conviction. "You are welcome to come with us. For as long as you live, for as long as I do, you are welcome. Come spring, we will move west. To save Lance from starving, I bought half his land. Some day, he knows to expect me as a neighbour. I imagine it comes sooner that he, or you, or even I expected. Chris," Joe said again, "tell me you understand why I do this, why now is right for it." 

"You do not need my permission," Chris said. Still, Chris could not look at him. 

"But I would like your blessing." 

"You have it," Chris said. It came from his mouth before he felt it touch his thoughts. The truth of it was unwavering. Hurt still lingered in his belly but for selfish reasons, Chris knew. He had existed so long with Joe at his side that to think of anything less brought pain. "Your daughters deserve a father and the life of privilege that brings. No child should be like me." 

"If my daughters possess an ounce of your spirit then it is better for them. You are a good man, Chris, far better than you allow yourself to recognise." When Joe laid his hand upon Chris’s leg again, Chris let his touch linger. "And you, JC, do you give me your blessing?" 

"May I come to the wedding?" JC asked. 

Joe laughed. "Aye, you may. That settled, JC, do you give me your blessing?" 

"Yes," JC said. When Chris looked at him, he saw that he was laughing. Under the blanket, JC took his hand and squeezed it. They kissed then, briefly. _He still tastes of me_ , Chris thought. His heart swelled with a sudden calming love. JC smiled at him as if he knew. 

"And one last thing before I leave you be," Joe said, "though I ask it knowing I have gone too far. Still, I do it anyway. I would trust no one else." 

Chris turned to him. _Be brave and face him_ , Chris thought. 

"I ask you both if you will go to Danielle and get Marie from her." 

JC caught his breath in his throat. "You mean to take a child from her mother?" 

"Danielle is not a bad woman, but her life was ruined when she found herself with child. She told me so more than once. I have seen the hurt that grows in unloved children with my own eyes. No daughter of mine will suffer that," Joe said. In his lap, he wrung his hands. 

"I will do it," Chris said without hesitation. Beside him, JC nodded. "How?" 

"I will give you money to bargain and a note written in French. She still cannot read English. Tell her to return to France as the virgin she pretended so long ago to be with me. If she insists to keep her, bring them both," Joe said. "And offer my apologies, if she will hear them." 

"You will stay with Kelly, should the babe be born early," Chris said. 

"Aye." Joe rubbed a hand over his brow. He stood and rested his hand on the door. He tried to smile, thought it came crooked. "I fear I may have bargained too soon with you, JC. Should Kelly labour with birth, I will marry her whether you have come or not," Joe admitted. 

"Then we will return before the child comes," JC said. 

"Aye. My apologies for disrupting you," Joe said. He did not wear the same grin he entered with. Chris reached for him, and they clasped hands for a moment. _Still too soft_ , Chris thought. Joe was a noble man, born and bred, even if he had a gypsy’s spirit. When the grip loosened, Chris let Joe turn and walk from him. 

When he was gone, Chris rose from the bed and walked to the small window. In the distance, he could see the town bristling with activity. Behind him, he felt the heat of JC’s body pressed against his back. JC laid his face against Chris’s neck and settled hands on Chris’s hips. 

"Though it broke your heart, you let him go," JC said. 

"I knew the time would come," Chris said. 

"Still, it took true bravery. And love," JC added. Gently, he kissed Chris below the ear. 

Chris put his hands on JC’s and threaded their fingers together. "You will not leave me?" 

"So long as we love each other, no. Since we have promised each other eternity, do not worry about such things." Chris knew JC smiled as his deft fingers pulled the hair from Chris’s neck and kissed at the base of it. "Now, come back to bed and let me ravish you more." 

Chris smiled. "I fear you may be the incubus." 

"No," JC said. He smiled against Chris’s skin. "I am simply a man in love."


	45. Chapter 45

One day after Joe’s announcement, they left. It would have been sooner, JC knew, if Joe had not needed to teach him the way to travel. The sun rose in the east and set in the west, JC was told, but more, there were signals to travellers along the major paths that would lead them. Finally, Joe gave JC more maps than he could carry and likely more than he could read. 

"And for all that is holy, if you think you are lost, ask someone," Joe said. 

"I will," JC promised. 

Chris’s mood was solemn. They had lain together that morning, which had not brightened Chris a bit. Before they left on horseback, Chris and Joe shared words to which JC was not privy. They embraced like men who would never again meet. JC thought them both fools for it. 

The night before, they had celebrated Chris’s birthday. Though Joe swore not even Chris knew which day it truly fell upon, JC decided it happened on that one. When Joe and Chris went to town, JC and Kelly had rolled bread and biscuits. She had let JC touch her belly, his hand bare against her skin. The babe tumbled and danced. His own stomach ached in sympathy for Kelly. 

JC glanced sidelong at Chris’s sombre face. His mouth was knit in a straight line. His dark eyes, squinted into the sun. There was a new twist of silver around his neck, small round bobbles laced together. The pendent. _My pendent_ , JC thought. It still lay over Chris’s throat. 

JC had done all he could think to demand it back without words. He had kissed it, and pulled it with his teeth, and played with it after they laid together. Yet Chris still kept it. JC wondered if he harboured some lingering hurt over JC’s doubt of him, of his love and his intentions. _I was not wrong to be wary_ , JC thought, though Chris had not broken his trust since. 

_I suppose I could ask him_ , JC thought. Idly, he rubbed his fingers at his throat. Chris was the type of man with which words rarely worked. _A man of action_ , JC thought. It had taken months of talk to get him into bed, but once they tumbled, neither of them wished to leave it. Feeling a smile pull his mouth, JC chewed at a finger then used the tip to wet his lips. When he looked up, Chris watched him. His eyes were dark and heady. 

"This is not so bad. Us," Chris said and added, "without Joe," when JC gave no reply. 

"I love you," JC blurted. 

At once, Chris’s face reddened and turned away. The wind carried his word. "Aye." 

They had passed a few men on horseback and one family earlier in the day, but there had been no sign of anyone else for hours. JC hoped Chris knew he had looked for prying ears before he said it. JC understood as much as he could that they were to be careful with their love under penalty of death. The world, though JC loved it dearly, still baffled him on occasion. 

They rode a while longer in amiable silence. JC could tell from the slope of Chris’s shoulders that he fought boredom. His leg thumped against Alistair’s side. Under his breath, Chris hummed a song JC could not recognise. It was a sorrowful tune yet lovely still as it came from Chris’s mouth. JC admired the quirk of Chris’s handsome ear. 

"You could read to me," Chris said, finally. He had held his tongue longer than JC thought he would, letting JC gaze. Chris did not like eyes upon him. Even a lover’s candid look unsettled him. JC, if he was a stronger man, would force his sight elsewhere. He did not try. 

"I did not bring Joe’s bible," JC confessed. Joe had willingly offered it. JC had declined. 

"No?" 

"No," JC echoed. 

Chris kept an eyebrow lifted. 

"I do not need it," JC said. Still, Chris looked at him, and JC wanted both to kiss him and to turn his head away. He did neither and gathered his strength instead. "I have learned all I will from it and from Joe’s teaching. If I wish to, I suppose I could read my book." 

"There is time enough for it," Chris said. 

JC felt the air whistle from his mouth. Wordlessly, he nodded. Chris smiled at him. 

They rode until sunset. JC sparked a fire and put his hands to it. Soon, they would not be able to sleep outside unless they wished to chatter all night. JC knew the bitter cold of a hard winter well enough. Two bodies did not offer much warmth, even with a fire flickering helpfully aside them. Still, he looked forward to Chris’s body so close in sleep. 

JC watched Chris walk around the big tree they had settled by. Curiously, JC followed him around it, stepping lightly in the grass. Chris gave no notice. Overhead, the wind whistled through the leaves. When Chris stopped, JC halted his own feet. JC had no inkling of what Chris intended until he drew his manhood from his breeches and let loose a steady stream. 

"Is that how you do it?" JC asked. 

Chris jumped. He doused his knees before he was able to stop, his thumb on the head of it. When he turned, JC thought he would be mad, but his face held no ire. It seemed as though he struggled with laughter. JC felt a sigh tighten his chest, but he caught it before it escaped. A betraying blush crept across his cheeks regardless. JC was grateful the shadows swallowed it. 

"Is this not how you do it?" 

"No," JC replied. "I have always crouched. I did not imagine another way." 

"A girl does it differently," Chris said. His voice had dipped low. 

"I suppose," JC said. 

When Chris held out a hand, JC approached him with cautious steps. In the distance, he could see twin fires flickering. They were not the only travellers out, but the cover of night allowed them some privacy. The horses were quiet. JC would hear a man approach if he dared. 

"You made me wet my breeches like a boy," Chris said. This close, JC could see his happy smile. Though his cheeks stayed warm, JC mirrored it. With an embarrassed chuckle, he put his head to Chris’s shoulder. "Do you wish me to show you? In the nip of winter, you will not have to bare your arse." With a grin on his face, Chris grabbed JC there and pulled him close. 

"Can I hold it?" JC asked. 

"Aye," Chris said. 

JC put his hand on it. In his ear, JC could hear Chris’s breath steady. Chris laced their fingers together. Through much laughter, Chris emptied himself without much trouble. JC’s belly ached when he tried it on himself and soaked the front of his breeches. 

"It goes everywhere!" JC said. Tears streaked down his cheeks as he tried to control this thing that had suddenly turned into a spitting snake. Beside him, Chris laughed merrily. A hand rested on his belly, his own breeches dark. JC’s sight blurred, and he could see no more. 

After, they washed with cool water. They took off their breeches and hung them over a low-lying branch. Wrapped in blankets, they sat by the fire to eat the meal JC had left to warm before their adventure. Having dared too much already, JC could not kiss Chris’s smiling lips, though he wished to do nothing else. Except, perhaps, to touch his manhood again. 

Chris leaned against him and put a hand on his knee. "What thought has your brain?" 

JC smiled into his oatmeal. "The same one that always has it," he said. 

"Aye. Me too." Chris held his words for a moment. "It seems unending. I rue each morning that comes too soon and each night we cannot lie together," Chris admitted. His hand moved up JC’s thigh with an abrupt quickness before the touch vanished. 

Under his blanket, JC felt himself stiffen. 

"You are an insufferable tease," JC said. Again, his lips broke into a smile he could not hold. Chris lifted his brow but said nothing. _It is better to be teased than not to be touched at all_ , JC thought. JC felt himself lucky that the dark made Chris bold, or he would be doomed to suffer this journey without so much as a smile from Chris’s mouth. 

JC gathered the bowls to wash them. Quietly, he sang with the melody the crackle of flame offered him. His body swayed in the cool wind, though his feet stayed rooted. Through the fire, JC could see Chris’s eyes on him. Again, they were dark with lust. 

"There was a time," Chris said, "when you could not keep yourself from dancing." 

JC propped the bowls against a rock then stood. He grabbed at the blanket when it nearly dropped from his hips. "I still dance," JC said slowly. Chris’s gaze continued to caress him, but JC did not understand why he spoke of such things. They had always made Chris uncomfortable. 

"You have not for a great many months," Chris replied. "Not in the way you once did." 

"I danced as a girl then." _And you shunned me soon after_ , JC thought. 

"Will you dance for me now?" Chris kept his eyes steady. "Please." 

"Will you sing for me, then, so I might have a melody to which I can dance?" 

"Aye," Chris said. "I will do that for you." 

Whatever song came to Chris’s mouth was a song no man could sing, save for him and the voice he owned. The notes were high and lifting, the sweet tinkle of melody. While there were no words, the thrills in Chris’s throat and the clap of his hands mixed to create the most glorious song. If he had been born deaf, JC would have still danced to it. 

With his eyes closed and his boots pulled from his feet, he danced over the edge of fire by touch alone. Above his head, he twisted his arms. The blanket stayed where he left it, low on his hips and baring his belly. The grass, damp with the night chill, grabbed at his ankles, but he did not let the earth hold him. Round and round he danced until the song vanished into the night, and he fell at Chris’s knees without a breath in his chest. 

"There is no creature in this world more beautiful than you," Chris whispered. He bent and put his mouth on JC’s open lips, his fingers on JC’s throat. Desperately, they kissed until the fear of discovery pulled them back. Emboldened, JC mouthed at Chris’s knees, his thighs. If he was a stupid man, he would have put his face between Chris’s legs and drank of his manhood. 

"I love you," JC whispered. "With each day, I love you more. So much, I ache with it." 

"We share these pains, I promise you. To the end, our hearts hurt together." 

JC bowed his head to Chris’s knee. The affliction was so great, he could not speak.


	46. Chapter 46

They had ridden for most of the day when JC first noticed the travelling band. The caravans had been stopped for the night and three fires already burned. Initially, he paid them little mind until a man raced past them, as quick as the wind, on the back of an aged stallion. _That is my brother_ , _Arthur,_ JC thought. Even as it touched his mind, he could scarcely comprehend. 

JC brought Fleur to a halt, and they stood there on the moors. In the west, the sun had begun to dip. The clouds hung low and dark overhead. Another horse darted by, bearing a rider. _And Owen_ , JC thought, _my brother_. Happily, they shouted to each other as Owen gave chase. 

Chris doubled back, and JC watched him. At once, his skin felt cold and numb, yet his eyes burned. He opened his mouth then snapped it closed. Those had been his brothers. They had ridden past him without knowing him. _They would not know you_ , JC thought angrily, wiping at his eyes. _They have never seen you_. 

"JC?" 

"Arthur and Owen." His voice caught in his throat, and he coughed to clear it. "My brothers." 

"Then that is your family’s camp," Chris said. 

"It must be." JC dropped his head. "I think I may be sick." 

"Come down, then," Chris said. Already, he had dismounted and walked to help him. JC tangled his foot in his pack and tumbled into Chris’s arms. When Chris set him down, JC’s legs wobbled. Chris led him to sit beneath a tall willow tree. "You have nothing to fear from them." 

"If it was your father," JC said. 

"I would be shitting from my arse in the bushes. Aye. I know," Chris said. He kept his hands on JC’s arms as if to steady him. Somehow, it did help. JC’s belly stopped its churning, though he felt no better once the lump had left his neck. "Whatever you wish to do, I will do it." 

"Should I speak to them?" 

"That decision is yours alone," Chris replied. 

JC closed his eyes. His body curled forward, but Chris kept him propped. Around him, the world spun in dizzying circles. _I should have expected to see them again_ , JC thought. Ireland was too small, JC had been told by Joe, to lose oneself in for long. _Yet I wish they had stayed missing_. JC put his face against Chris’s sleeve and breathed his scent. It calmed him. 

"I thought myself a coward for not reading my book once I realised I could," JC muttered. He rolled his head over Chris’s arm. "What if I was waiting for this moment? I deserve the truth from my father’s mouth. Does he not owe me that much for seventeen years of torment?" 

"Are you prepared for whatever answer, if any, he has to give you?" Chris asked. 

"I must know," JC said. It came strong from his lips as if he was sure. Inside, his belly still turned, but he recognised the conviction behind his words. "You, at least, know the reason for your childhood. I wish to know the reason for mine." 

"Do you wish me to come with you?" 

"I could not do it without you," JC admitted. "If you will?" 

"I will," Chris said. 

Chris made the decision to ride in on horseback. If they needed to escape, it would be the best way. When dusk was upon them, JC felt settled enough to mount again. He straightened his back and shoulders until he sat strong and tall. The months of summer had put muscles on his bones and hair on his face. _I have become the man they denied me_ , JC thought. 

As they entered the camp, JC saw faces he recognised from times he had spent spying through the split in the tent. Not all of them had names that he knew. They were gaunt and hungry, sorrow etched onto the lines of their expressions, drowned in the darks of their eyes. Yet they continued to survive despite it all. _As I have_ , JC thought. _It is in my blood._

They rode until Arthur stopped them. 

"What business have you here, stranger?" He asked. 

"I wish to speak to my father," JC said. 

"Your father, _stranger_ , is not here. I would recognise the face of kin." 

"Would you know me by my eyes?" JC asked. Beneath him, Fleur stayed still, but JC could see Alistair skittering about in place as Chris struggled to keep him steady. JC kept the most of his attention on Arthur. He had his hand upon his sheathed blade. "I am your brother." 

"I have only one," Arthur said, "and he waits behind you, stranger." 

By then, others had ventured to watch the exchange. JC scanned the crowd, his family, and let his eyes settle on Maggie. When their gazes did meet, JC knew that she recognised him. _How many times has she seen me without my veil?_ JC thought. _How many times did she make me cover myself as though I was hideous?_ Maggie knew his face better than JC himself did. 

"I wish to speak to my father," JC repeated. "Ask Maggie who I am." 

Arthur turned to her as she stepped to the front of the crowd. 

"Get father," she said, "and let him deal with this monster who asks for him." 

JC could feel Chris beside him. From him, JC drew his strength. Chris had seen the depths of evil, had suffered physical hurts that JC could scarcely imagine. There was a giant inside him that JC called upon now for courage. Maggie had labelled him a monster. 

His father, when he came, looked the same as he had months ago. Lines of white still grew in his beard; his eyes were still hard like stone. _And he still hates me_ , JC thought. It burned in his heated look. It was only then that JC dismounted, thought he kept his hand on Fleur’s neck, tangled in his reins. When his father struck him across the face, it was the only way he still stood. 

"You will find no welcome here," his father said, "and call the bastard off." 

"Chris," JC said. His cheek stung when he spoke. Blindly, he threw out his hand and stopped Chris before he stepped forward, blade drawn. "He only startled me," JC whispered and looked sidelong at him. He fought the tears from his eyes. "I am fine." 

"If you lay your hand upon him once more, I will kill you," Chris said, but he stood down. 

"I only wish to speak with you," JC said, the third time. "Then I will go." 

His father turned. "Alone, then." 

"He comes with me," JC said. 

"If only to be rid of you sooner." 

Without warning, his father moved. Without hesitation, JC followed, knowing Chris stayed close behind and guarded his back. They stopped outside the bounds of the camp where a lone fire burned. Arthur, Maggie and Owen came up beside them. Arthur and Owen bore arms. 

"Speak, then, or are you even more stupid than I guessed?" 

JC had wondered what he would say when called upon. It came easily. "Why?" 

"If I had my choice, I would have cut your throat when you came into this world. The devil had sent you, and we have suffered every day since. My wife had thought to put you in skirts as if evil would not know a demon’s disguise. You brought this on us," he said. 

JC flickered his eyes about, catching each cold glare. "I do not understand." 

"How many babes have you bore, daughter?" 

"Three," Maggie said. 

"How many have lived?" 

"None." 

"I have lost two daughters this year, each of them carried into death by their own babes. Elspeth and Mary have bore your sins into the earth. My kin starves with famine and wastes with disease," his father said, "and you have done it all to us gladly. You come back to mock us." 

"I have done no such thing," JC whispered. Bile rose like waves in his throat, hot and stinging. His eyes stayed fogged, though he would not cry. No man had the strength to pull the tears from his eyes. For he could do nothing else, he dug his fingers into his palms. The skin split easily and blood seeped through his fingers. 

"I gave my word to my wife that so long as she lived, I would not harm you. By then, you had grown into some aberration that passed as human. For that reason, I could not slay you by my own hand. If God mistook you for a man, I would lose my soul for it. And you were too empty of thought to take your own life," he said, "though I did try to encourage you." 

Deeper, JC’s fingers ripped into his skin. Blood dripped from them like rain in a storm. 

"And I had been sure this man would kill you when he realised your evil," his father said. He focussed his eyes on Chris, though JC felt it tear through him first to get there. "Of course, I did not know a buggerer to see one. Does he split you in halves when you takes you?" 

At that final word, JC turned and put his hand on Chris’s chest before he could lunge. Gently, he pushed until Chris stepped back then pushed again so he turned. It was then that Arthur and Owen came at them. Chris grabbed him before he was struck. A whistle rang through one ear as the clatter of knives pierced the other. It was a blur of noise and motion before the horses came into the middle of it, kicking up their hooves. Chris lifted JC to Fleur’s back then threw himself onto Alistair. With a click of Chris’s tongue, both beasts broke into a run. 

How long they raced, JC did not know, but in time, the horses slowed. Thick bile spilled from his mouth onto his bloody hands, and when he saw it on his fingers, only then did the tears rip from his eyes. Stinking of his own ugly body, JC put his stained hands to his face and sobbed pain into the horror.


	47. Chapter 47

Before they went any further, Chris stopped them at the edge of a stream. He circled JC’s narrow waist with his hands and pulled him off his mount. Chris could smell him more than he could see him. The night had not yet swallowed them, but the shadows lingered close. They knelt alongside the water. Gently, Chris bathed each of JC’s hands then did the same to his face. It was at that touch when JC turned away, but Chris would have none of it. With his fingers dug into JC’s cheeks, Chris steadied his head until the filth had been washed away. 

Chris stripped him of his shirt. When he returned with dry clothing, JC’s teeth chattered so loudly that Chris thought some animal had wandered too close. With care, Chris pulled the heavy cloak around his shaking shoulders and pressed the softest kiss to JC’s mouth. The taste of his lips was bitter, but Chris kept his touch there until JC bowed his head. 

"I think he has killed me at long last," JC muttered. 

"It only feels like he has," Chris said. He put his hands on JC’s shoulders then lifted them so his fingers buried in the dark curls of JC’s hair. "I promise you, this man who sits before me still shines with life. That man tossed dirt on your soul to trick you. That is all." 

JC lifted his eyes. In the shadows, Chris only saw they were light. In his heart, he knew the blues of them better than he knew the sky that had covered him all his life. Chris gathered JC in his arms and urged him to stand. Together, they walked to the horses. Chris pulled JC up with him. Obediently, Fleur followed as they headed down the path. Tinkers only settled near towns if they could help it. Chris would find an Inn and get a room for the night. 

They stumbled upon a small hamlet. Chris left JC with the horses. Pocket heavy with coin, he went to bargain. Chris would beg if need be, but the Innkeeper took pity. So long as he paid his dues, they could stay the night. Chris was gouged for it, he knew, but he gave his coin. 

Once the horses had been put to stable, Chris gathered their things and led the way up the narrow staircase. JC followed, all of him hidden by the dark cloak. _They will think he is my wife_ , Chris thought. JC still had that way about him when he moved that spoke more of a woman than a man. For once, Chris wished they could see JC as the beautiful man he truly was. 

Inside, Chris barred the door with a tilted chair beneath the handle. There was a single bed, big enough to fit two grown men, and a table by the window. A chamber pot rested near the door aside a second chair. The room was small, but Chris felt safe enough within its walls. 

Chris lit the two nearest oil lamps, and he crossed the room with one of them. He held a hand in front of the flame so it would not blow out. "It did not happen as you hoped." 

"No," JC agreed. His mouth was drawn in a solemn line. "I was stupid to think it would." 

"You have an unwavering faith in people, even those of us who have wronged you badly," Chris said. With his fingers, he combed JC’s hair from his face. It stuck to JC’s skin, damp with a cold sweat. "You are a smarter man than most. Hope does not make your dumb." 

"All those people," JC whispered. His eyes widened. "I did not mean for it to happen." 

Chris held the lamp closer to his face. _Surely, he does not mean_ , Chris thought, and could not finish the rest. JC’s cheeks glistened with quiet tears. Chris plucked them from his skin with a gentle touch. "Tell me, JC, what sorrow haunts your head." 

"They suffer. For me. I have caused you pain as well, and Joe with his daughter. I have done it all unwittingly. If they had told me. If my mother had told me," JC said. His pinched his mouth shut as if unable to utter the last of it. Chris’s belly dropped to his knees. 

Softly, he said, "you would have been dead long before you came to me." 

"I am just one man," JC said. "Why did she spare me?" 

"You think I am the first to love you on first sight? Do not be daft, I beg you," Chris said. "Your mother knew it then as I know it now. The words your father gave you, they are nothing more than lies. Superstition. I told you once I held no trust in such things. Do you remember?" 

"‘It is all used to make people believe things that are untrue,’" JC said. 

"Aye. Watch my hand," Chris said. Between his fingers, he took a coin. He touched the edge of it to JC’s cheek then brought it through the air. It vanished then showed again in JC’s ear. It was a trick he had flaunted a hundred times before. A second time, he slowed it. The coin passed from one hand to the other, in a blur of slowed motion. When JC still did not see, Chris did it again and again until JC followed where the coin did go and caught it. 

"It never leaves your touch," JC said. He plucked the coin from Chris’s fingers. 

"It is impossible that one boy could cause such pain by his very existence. Once, Joe told me I was an unbearable fool to believe in such things. Now, I pass that same wisdom onto you," Chris said. He put his hand in JC’s hair to cup the curve of his head. "Do you believe me?" 

JC tilted his head and pressed a soft kiss to Chris’s wrist. "But they were in such pain," he whispered. 

"The English have stolen our lands, and so we starve," Chris said without a moment’s pause. "The people are sick for the very same reason. Ireland suffers, so we all suffer her pains. The world around us crumbles. It has long before you were even born, and it will, I fear, long after you are gone." 

"But if you are wrong." 

"Then you must look me in the eyes and tell me you have lied to me, too. I turned my world upside down to love you, JC. Say one word, and I will turn it all back," Chris said. It came out raw but strong. _And Lord help me, I mean every word of it_ , Chris thought. 

JC said nothing, though his face crumbled. Tears, plump and plenty, rolled down his cheeks, and he bowed his head into his hands. Chris gathered him into an embrace and held him. As they rocked together upon the bed, Chris sang to him. It was a dreary tune about a woman who married a boy at her father’s bidding then lost him just as soon as they came to love. 

"Do none of your songs end happy?" JC asked. His face had burrowed into Chris’s shirt. 

Against his hair, Chris smiled. "Do such things exist in this world?" 

"If they do not, I will write them myself." JC lifted his face. He looked a boy in that moment, far younger than his years, but Chris knew him to be a man and a better one than most. "I will read my book, though it frightens me. No answer could be worse than the one thrown at me tonight. If my mother could hide such hate from me, I wonder what else she hid." 

"She will tell you." Though Chris understood not why, he felt the truth of it. 

His knees ached, yet Chris still stood. He brought the lamp to the other one that burned and set it on the table. Behind him, Chris heard the rustle of JC’s clothes as he undressed. The pub rumbled beneath with the shouts drunken men, but it was little more than a hum to his ears. 

Seated upon a chair, Chris pulled the boots from his feet. The shirt, he tugged from his chest. Chris slid his breeches down to the floor. Without shame, he relieved himself in the chamber pot then handed it to JC, who took it carefully. When he was done with his business, Chris opened the window and dumped it. A burst of cool air rushed in and puckered his nipples. 

Each lamp, Chris blew out with a puff. When he turned, JC knelt upon the bed. His hair brushed at his naked shoulders and half-crossed his face. His mouth, drawn in a line, betrayed the unspeakable trouble in his heart. Still, as Chris tried to cover him, JC touched his wrist. 

"He tried to make us ugly," JC said. He put a hand on Chris’s flat belly. 

"Did he succeed?" 

"No," JC said. "In all the world, there exists no man who could." 

"None," Chris agreed. He went into JC’s arms and leaned over him. His skin was warm and moist, and though JC’s eyes stayed sad, they brewed with love, too. Their mouths met in a desperate kiss, one that burned hotter than the sun and pooled deeper than the ocean. Chris trailed his lips over the whole of him, down his neck, across his shoulders, then up again to his smile, his eyes, his hair. Hands moved over Chris’s back and held him close. 

Chris kissed all he could, and when he had suckled his fill, he took more. JC’s own mouth pressed wherever it could touch. JC clung, desperately wanting, and Chris slid against him, so their hearts did meet for a moment. At that, JC’s legs came around his waist, and his body lifted as if it held the strength of the world. They kissed again and murmured love songs. 

Under JC’s back, Chris wrapped both his arms and drew them flush together. They kissed and kissed until their mouths were raw, yet they did not stop. The room stayed quiet except for the steady rhythm of their breaths. Chris knew his voice had been swallowed into JC’s skin, into each secret crevice and each opened cave. Again, JC pushed at him. His legs, long like a newborn foal, lifted and crossed behind Chris’s back, under his arms. 

Chris kissed him more, held him closer. He drank the rivers that ran his skin. He suckled JC’s perfect flesh and raised blood to it, marked him as one would a map. If it drew a breathless whimper from JC’s mouth, Chris remembered it then moved on. No man had ever loved a man or woman so dear. No man ever would, nor would he dare, save him and his beloved, JC. 

How they tumbled into it, Chris would never know. It seemed a perfect dream. The urge of JC’s hips insistent at his belly, Chris could not deny them. With a bow of his head, he consented to it, but when he put a hand on JC’s shoulder to turn him, he would not go. Again, Chris attempted to roll him to his belly, and JC resisted. His legs did not come down. 

JC stretched his arm. His fingers knocked something, and it clattered noisily to the ground. Chris held himself with shaking arms, lifted from JC’s body. Nervously, he waited. When JC’s hand came back, it was slick with lavender oil. His deft fingers circled the length of Chris’s cock then dipped between his own legs. The shadows swallowed his hand. 

_To think we would use it for this_ , Chris thought, then submitted himself to the kiss JC offered so freely. Chris kept his eyes open to see him. JC did the same. With one hand, Chris covered JC’s forehead and pushed the hair from his brow; with the other, Chris moved his cock closer. He felt like a man without eyes set forth in a foreign land. 

Still, Chris found his way. JC led him, not with his hands but the slant of his narrow hips, the pant of his wet mouth. When Chris felt his cockhead dip inside, he put his face to JC’s shoulder and opened his mouth. It felt like nothing he had imagined. If Chris had bedded women, he forgot. In that moment, it was only them, connected in ways deeply intimate. 

JC clung to him. His arms crossed Chris’s shoulders; his feet knotted at his back. Pain betrayed itself in the scrape of nails over Chris’s skin, but when Chris stilled, JC mewled as if it hurt him more. Their skin dripped with the sweetest honey. They twisted so tightly together that Chris wondered if his heart had not jumped from his mouth to JC’s spread lips. When Chris came off, he breathed the pleasure of his release into JC’s own. Wetness spread over their bellies. 

With the greatest care, Chris pulled himself from JC’s body. Though his chest still heaved, Chris tried to be still when he settled. He kissed the pulse of JC’s breast and held it there. The song he heard beneath filled his heart, and he kept his ear to it. His breath came hard. 

"Did I harm you?" Chris asked. 

"No," JC said. He smiled, though Chris could not see it. He felt the air shift and knew. 

"Did I please you, then?" 

A gay laugh left his mouth. " _Aye_." 

"Aye," Chris repeated. "You should watch your tongue, lest you start to sound like me." 

The hum beneath them erupted suddenly into shouts and yells. Chris sat up and waited for the silence that would soon come as the Innkeeper kicked the lot of them out on their arses. Barefooted, he walked to the canteen of water they carried with them. He poured a drizzle on JC’s sticky belly then splashed his own. With the edge of his shirt, he wiped them both dry. 

"Are you sure I caused you no pain?" Chris asked. He put a hand on JC’s chest and smoothed the tips of his fingers over the light brush of hair that had started to sprout there. JC nodded, but his eyes did not stray from Chris’s face. "What is it then?" 

"You have something that is mine." 

"I do?" Chris asked. JC nodded. "Your heart, perhaps?" 

"That you have, but it is not what I speak of. This," JC said. He put a finger to Chris’s throat and touched the pendent that hung there. "You said you would give it back. You have not, and I think its return is long overdue. You have enough silver round your neck already." 

"I forgot I wore it," Chris admitted. With a hand, he swept his hair from his neck and bowed his head. Deftly, JC untied the leather strap. Chris caught it on his palm before it fell. He held the length of it between his fingers and circled JC’s throat. Chris fastened it. "There." 

JC put his hand over it. "You let me be a man today." 

"It took all my strength," Chris said. "I will slay the next man to utter such words to you." 

"And I think I would let you, but it will not happen again." Chris watched as he laid back then followed. Their legs twisted beneath the blankets when Chris covered them. JC still spoke. "From his seed, I might have grown, but he gave me nothing else. I have survived despite him." 

"The man who nearly drove you to death was me," Chris said. 

"I trust you with that power." Shyly, JC smiled. "I fear I cannot resist you." 

"Well, you might argue some before submission," Chris said. 

"Some," JC agreed. 

"Argue all you wish. What control I have over you, I use it for now life and love. Nothing else." 

"We should sleep," JC said. Chris’s eyes felt droopy, so he nodded and let them close. The beat of JC’s heart had steadied under his ear. "The night grows late, and we still have a way to travel tomorrow if I have followed the map properly. I will ask before we leave, just in case." 

"I trust you to lead me," Chris murmured. 

"Sleep well, Chris." 

"Aye," Chris said. Sleepily, he kissed the heat of JC’s breast. Arms crossed his back and drew him closer, and they settled there, tied together. Though the night was bitter with a deep chill, Chris felt warmed to the soul. Thinking not on the pain of the day but the love they had shared, he fell asleep. Already, Chris felt the change inside him.


	48. Chapter 48

Chris woke to the steady beat of pounding rain. It roared down upon the roof. For a moment, confusion fogged his brain. Startled, he sat up then put a hand against his chest. His heart throbbed with mild panic. _It is only a storm_ , he thought. On shaky legs, Chris stood. 

Chris moved to the window and opened it. It was morning, though Chris could hardly tell. Dark clouds had the sun in their grips. The wind blew, hard and angry, against the shutters. Quickly, Chris closed them lest the floor be doused with rainwater. Dim again, he sat upon the chair and put his head in his hands. Exhaustion tugged at him. His nerves felt ragged. 

JC slept onwards. _That boy loves sleep_ , Chris thought. Smiling, he rubbed his hands over his cheeks. It had taken months to break him of his night walking. Chris much preferred the feel of him close during sleep than the moments he woke to find the bed empty. Chris could scarcely remember those times any longer. His life had changed into a new one. Without Joe. 

In the bed, JC shifted. The sheet fell from him, baring his naked body. Chris’s eyes were drawn to the length of it. His flawless skin glimmered in the half-light. His cock extended hard against his belly, and a single hand rested near it. His body moved as if caught in a carnal dream. 

Chris had never seen a man with skin so perfect. Chris knew his own body and the scars it bore. Those he did not know by his eyes, he knew by his fingers. There were ridges of marks all over his flesh, some deeper than others. Even Joe, who had never been flogged or been forced into labour, bore the marks of a man well injured. His clumsy feet had led him through windows, off horses and down steep inclines. Trees grabbed at Joe, and rocks called to him. 

JC had not a mark on his body. His mind and spirit had been injured, but no man had ever dared to touch his body. _Save for that monster of a father_ , Chris thought. JC’s face had swelled over night. A faint bruise marred his cheek. Still, JC seemed unmarked. In time, the bruising would fade to memory. JC was not the type to dwell. Chris could not escape his marks. 

The lower skin of JC’s belly was smooth save for the split of hair that separated left from right. Chris had touched it with his fingers, had used it to tease JC to arousal. Yet he was struck with the urge to rub his cheek against it and leave it unmarked. JC’s mouth and chin often reddened after Chris’s impassioned kisses. _My kisses are scars he bears_ , Chris thought. 

Without waking him, Chris strode quick across the room to the canteen of river water they carried. He filled the washing basin with all that was left of it. Quietly, he rooted through JC’s things. The mirror and the soap, both he took from JC’s pack. He sudsed his cheeks. With the edge of his knife, he pulled it over his skin. It had been a great many years since Chris’s face had been bare. He had been the last boy to reach manhood. Once he sprouted, in hair and cock if not in height and voice, he dared not risk losing either. 

Blood rose on his skin where he nicked at it. Behind him, JC hummed in his sleep and rolled to his belly. A sleep-heavy arm hit the wooden floor. Chris knew the sound as he knew any other that JC made. He did not turn to him. Eyes on the mirror, he scraped at his jaw and pulled the thick hair from it. Chris did not take the whole of it, though he shaved as close to the flesh as he dared. On his chin, he left a black tuft. The rest was bare. 

Chris rinsed and dried. He sat upon the chair and did not move. His arse was full of splinters; his skin, puckered with bumps from the chill. Twice, he stamped his foot on the floor, yet JC did not wake. Instead, he rolled to his back and rested there. 

Eyes narrowed, Chris tried to imagine JC as a woman and could not. Even when Chris had thought him to be a lady, his female body had been almost sexless in Chris’s mind. _But his eyes_ , Chris thought, _and his mind_. They had sparked Chris’s desire and hitched his breath. 

Face set in determination, Chris knelt upon the bed with a single knee. His fingers fluttered up the side of JC’s lax body. With his thumb, he teased one nipple to attention then the other. Still, JC did not wake, but his lips stretched with the slightest smile. _Sweet dreams then_ , Chris thought. He lowered his face to the flat of JC’s belly. There, Chris nuzzled him. 

The skin was damp and soft against Chris’s cheek. He licked at it and tasted the salt. JC’s cock, long and slender, tapped against his nose. Chris took the head of it between his lips and sucked. At long last, JC’s body jolted awake. He lifted his slim hips as his hand settled in Chris’s hair. JC’s knuckles knotted into his tangled locks and pulled at him. 

"Good morrow," Chris said. With the flat of his tongue, Chris mapped the length of JC’s cock then lapped at his heavy balls. 

JC answered with a sleepy laugh from deep in his taut belly. His hips surged forward. 

"May I continue?" Chris asked. He circled JC’s cock with his hand and stroked it against his quivering belly. JC squirmed and pushed at him again. "I did not ask permission." 

"You never need it," JC assured him. "You may wake me like this each morning." 

"Your word, then?" 

"If I kiss your chattering mouth, will you be quiet and let us share pleasure?" JC asked. When Chris grinned at him, JC lead him gently by the hair to his mouth. There, Chris kissed him deeply, full and wet, and suckled his tongue. JC put two fingers on Chris’s cheek. "Your beard?" 

"If I am to be your secret lover, I must keep our love secret. I dare not mark you," Chris confessed. JC put two hands on his shoulders and pushed him back. Chris rested on JC’s legs, naked and wanton. His cockhead leaked onto JC’s belly. "Do you not like it?" 

"You are even more handsome," JC blurted. A faint blush crossed his cheeks. 

"Aye?" 

"Aye," JC echoed. Between his teeth, his bit his lip and looked coyly upon Chris. A single finger snaked from the pulse of Chris’s throat to his throbbing cock. "Last night, we laid together. I took this into me." JC squeezed him in the vise of his fingers. "I dreamt about it." 

"Did you?" 

"Yes." With the brightness of the sun, JC smiled. "I dreamt we did it again." 

"It will not harm you?" Chris asked. Shyly, he touched upon JC’s hips and rubbed at the ridges of muscle there. At the thought of being inside again, Chris had hardened further in JC’s hand. He could not hide his reaction, nor did he try. "You would tell me if it did." 

"Joe said it would get better with time and practice," JC said quietly. Already, his legs had parted and circled Chris’s waist. Chris bowed down to him, putting his mouth against JC’s throat and kissing at it. "I cannot imagine it bringing more pleasure, but he says it must." 

"I truly wish you would stop speaking to him about such things. Joe will never let me live it down," Chris said. In his ear, JC laughed sweetly. A loving hand rubbed against Chris’s neck and cradled his head. "Then I suppose, for the sake of learning, we must do it again." 

"We must," JC agreed. 

A second time felt like the first. JC’s legs, long as the ocean was deep, lifted to Chris’s shoulders. Slick with lavender oil, they folded together like one body and kept their mouths sealed to swallow sound. The only betrayal came from the creak of the bed with each slow, languid thrust. Chris held JC close and rocked against him. Chris came off first, deep in the heat of JC’s body, then brought JC to the brink with his mouth. He took JC’s seed into his belly. 

They lay in bed together and listened to the sweet song of the rain. Chris kept JC between his legs, JC’s back flush against his chest. With his fingers, Chris stroked the damp hair from JC’s brow. From ankle to knee, JC rubbed his palms over the hair on Chris’s legs. 

"Should we not set out?" JC asked. 

"A storm rages outside with rain a bitter cold. Tomorrow, if the sky has cleared, we will ride at dawn. I fear, no sooner," Chris murmured. Time worked against them, but they had only two heavy cloaks between them, and winter was nigh. "We have time. Do you agree?" 

"I suppose." JC rolled back his head. "Are you hungry?" 

"For you," Chris said and nipped at JC’s ear. A grin broke his face when JC laughed. It shimmered across his skin like glint of the sun against metal. His body unwilling, Chris pulled himself from the bed and reached for his breeches. "Aye. I will get us some lunch." 

JC rolled onto his belly. "Meat and milk, perhaps?" 

"I will do my best," Chris vowed solemnly. He crossed his breast with a finger. 

"My dashing knight," JC replied. Into the ocean of off-white blankets, JC disappeared. His voice came muffled yet merry. "Wake me when you return." The blues of his eyes peeked out from beneath the sheets. "If I like what you bring me, I will thank you properly." 

His blade cinched at his waist, Chris removed the chair from against the door and stepped into the hall. A man lay on the ground stinking of whiskey and bile. Without waking him, Chris stepped over him. Wherever they had stumbled upon, it seemed a place of ill repute. 

The Innkeeper’s wife prepared him two plates of steaming mutton and griddlecakes topped with curds. She filled a jug with lukewarm milk as he waited. Though it was still early, especially for drunkards and gamblers, there were men up and eating. He could feel their gazes on his back. They no doubt wondered how a tinker had the coin for an inn. Chris ignored them. 

With the plates balanced on one hand and the other clutching the jug, Chris travelled back up the narrow stairs. The same man still slept on the wooden floor, though a new puddle of bile extended from his open mouth. _What a waste of a life_ , Chris thought as he stepped over him. 

Chris roused JC from sleep a second time. He did not bother to dress. His plate perched on his knee, Chris kept his free hand on JC’s back. With his knuckles, he rubbed each bump of spine. JC leaned against him and ate heartily. After each bite, he licked his long fingers. 

"What does it take to sate you?" Chris whispered. 

Gaily, JC smiled. "I fear I could not tell you." 

Neither food nor pleasure seemed to do it. Chris bowed JC to the bed once his plate was cleared, and they laid with each other again. Chris washed his cock before he would allow JC to put his mouth to it. Only then did he settle back and let the tingle of desire rush over him. The steady thump of rain and the own heavy beat of his heart steadied whatever nerves Chris felt rise in his belly. Outside the door, men shouted for ale and whiskey. The words echoed down the hall. 

Once JC had dressed, Chris threw open the window to get the stink of their passion out. Into the rain, Chris stuck his face and washed the sweat from his brow. JC did the same. His hair matted thick to his neck and shoulders. Rainwater dripped down his throat to the pendent. 

"You stare at me," JC finally said. A grin twisted his lips. A finger rubbed his throat. 

Beneath the guard of the windowsill, Chris took his hand and held it. "Only if I was blind could I stop." Gently, Chris rubbed a thumb over the lamb-soft skin of JC’s wrist. "The day is still young. I fear there is little excitement in this town. What do you wish to do with your time?" 

"Well, we have done _that_ twice already," JC said. 

"Aye. We have." Chris laughed. "You thanked me properly indeed." 

JC bowed his head, yet when he lifted it, his eyes were not so merry. Chris tugged at his wrist until JC’s lips parted. "I was thinking that." JC lowered his eyes once more. "Perhaps, I would try to read my book. My father’s words weigh heavy on me. His voice held conviction." 

"I will give you space." 

"I did not ask you for that," JC said. His brow wrinkled, and Chris smoothed it with a gentle thumb. 

"Aye, I know. But I also know your patterns. I would be a fool if I did not." 

Chris left JC to his book, both lamps lit for light and the window half-opened. Chris returned the plates and jug from whence they came. A barmaid had joined the Innkeeper’s wife in her duties. She batted her dark eyes at him from across the counter. The revealing cut of her bodice was lewdly low. Chris knew a whore to see one and declined her affections. 

From the door of the inn, he sprinted. Mud flung up his boots and breeches. The roaring wind was bitterly chill. Though he was but damp when he came into stables, he appreciated the warmth the waiting horses offered. A stableman looked up from his bed of his hay then closed his eyes again. A basket of bruised apples rested on a bale. Chris took two. 

Alistair and Fleur were in the same stall, tied at opposite sides. Though Fleur was the older of the two, Alistair was two hands taller. He nipped at Chris’s hair when he got close enough then caught scent of the apples and went for the both of them. 

"Ach, you greedy pig. Wait your turn," Chris said. 

Alistair stamped his foot and neighed plaintively. 

Chris fed Fleur first, who waited patiently in place. He chewed happily then, in thanks, wet Chris’s hands and face with his spittle. _Like JC used to kiss_ , Chris thought. A grin pulled at his cheeks. Chris’s skin warmed with memory. Though JC’s enthusiasm had never wavered, his skill for it had increased with each kiss. JC seemed made for pleasure, simple or otherwise. 

Alistair ate the apple in one huge, hungry bite. Chris scrubbed over his belly and his neck with a rigorous hand. Alistair was a good beast. Stubborn in ways few men were, but he had saved them from JC’s father at a single shrill of a whistle. Outnumbered, they would not have stood a chance. Those blades were ready to carve their bellies and steal their lives. 

Chris brushed them until both horses were relaxed and cheery. He pulled the sticks and burrs from their manes and tails with careful hands. Fleur had only one burr tangled in his tail, but Alistair seemed to carry a forest in his hair. Still, he let Chris remove it all, snapping his teeth thrice and pissing on Chris’s boot only once. 

"I could eat you," Chris said. He straddled the stable wall and stuck his foot into the rain. 

Alistair snorted. 

Chris left the horses well-fed and guarded by the drunk stableman. Rain came harder, beating down upon the earth. The streets had flooded with the storm. No man, save him, was fool enough to be out in it. The louts were already inside, filling their bellies with ale and meat. His chest round with air, Chris darted from the stable to the inn. From the corner of his eyes, he caught sight of two cloaked men as he ran, but when looked again, they were gone. 

Chris ordered dinner and waited for it. The men around him shouted and laughed. Friends or enemies, it seemed not to matter when the whiskey abounded. An especially large, red-bearded man stood upon a flimsy table and sang a merry song about willing young wives. Joe had spent half his life on tables, singing happy tunes to rooms full of drunkards. Chris had spent just as much time, hiding his face in his hand and wishing for a swift death. 

Chris missed him. Joe. They had hardly been gone a week, yet Chris yearned for his company. He dared not utter his worries to JC, lest he think Chris unhappy to be with him. In time, Chris knew the ache would dull. Though Joe had settled, Chris still felt the need to roam burn in his blood. He and JC had yet to discuss Joe’s offer to come to the west and live there. 

_If JC wishes to settle_ , _will I follow?_ Chris thought. Without hesitation, he knew the answer in his heart and head. _Yes_. Chris was not daft. He much preferred happiness to misery. For however long it was his, Chris would follow wherever it led him. He would follow JC. 

For the second time that day, Chris took more food than he could carry up the narrow staircase. The halls were empty and clean, though he nearly slipped on a puddle of water. Supper balanced precariously on his arm, he opened the door. JC sat by the window. A blanket was pulled over his legs, and his cheeks were mottled with dried tears. The book lay open on his lap. 

Chris settled the food on the table. Saying nothing, Chris sat upon the bed. 

"It seems there is a curse in my family," JC said. He moved his fingers over an ink-smudged page. From what Chris could see of it, he had read nearly a dozen pages. "No woman was to bear a third son or risk terrible things, and for three generations, they escaped it." 

"Until you," Chris said. 

"Until me." JC closed the book and fingered the cover. A frown straightened his lips. "My father had thought, after Maggie was born, he was safe. Two boys then girls until a woman could bear no more. My mother knew better. She was afraid. He made her feel such fear." 

Chris held out a hand, and JC reached for it. 

"When I was born, they took me from her, but she demanded to see me. She meant only to say goodbye." JC stood and walked the space between them until he settled at Chris’s side. There, he buried his face in Chris’s shoulder. "She had a scar on her right hand. She never told me where it came from, though I asked. It had made her fingers useless. I know now. Trying to slit my throat, he sliced her instead, even as she begged him to leave me be." 

Chris bowed his head into JC’s curls and held him close. 

"That was the hand she used to write. She relearned with her left to leave me this." JC held up his book and pushed it at Chris. He took it against his breast. "I can scarcely read it. The letters are blurred and crooked. I do not remember her writing it, yet I was with her constantly." 

"It is the greatest gift she could give you," Chris said, "besides, perhaps, life." 

"I know," JC whispered. He draped an arm around Chris’s neck and lifted himself to Chris’s lap. Chris glanced at the door. He had only kicked it shut. JC squeezed until he looked back. "I am ungrateful. Worse, I am angry. She has given me so much, and I am still unhappy." 

"Why?" 

"She did not believe a word of it, Chris," JC said. His fingers were cold against Chris’s neck. "She was an educated woman. She recognised plague and famine for what they were. She knew I could never cause it. Yet she _left_ me there, and I am _angry_ that she did, even when I know she had no choice. How do women bear it? This world is so terrible to them." 

"The world is terrible to a great many people." 

"Not _that_ terrible," JC said. "If you were a woman, you would still be on that farm." 

"I would have left," Chris said. "I would rather be a whore than let a man beat me." 

"But if you had children? Would you leave them behind to suffer, or would you take them with you to starve?" JC asked. He looked at Chris as if he expected an answer, but Chris would give none. "She says my father was not that man when they were wed. She left behind a life of comfort and privilege to love him. She loved him still, despite it all." 

"Love makes people fools," Chris said. It came from his mouth too fast to stop it. 

"Am I foolish to love you, then?" 

Chris lowered his eyes and said nothing else. He was not surprised when JC removed himself from Chris’s lap and lay down upon the bed instead. When Chris offered dinner, he refused it. Chris ate the food that would rot overnight, though his belly churned unsteadily. 

Rain beat down upon the ceiling like it was a drum, and the rousing shouts of ale-happy men rose from the floor, yet Chris felt as if cloth plugged his ears. He propped a chair under the door then undressed. He extinguished the lamps and shuttered the window. In the dark, he tripped once over JC’s boot and thumped his head on the wall. 

"Are you hurt?" JC asked. 

"I have a skull as thick as rock, and I might be twice as dumb to boot," Chris said. Blindly, he stumbled forth until JC’s arms circled his waist and led him down. They met in the middle of the bed and lay there, breathing together. "My apologies," Chris finally said. 

"Mine too," JC said. 

"I fear we are too much alike in our anger." 

JC hummed a little in his throat. "Your mother is not dead, is she?" 

"Not to my knowledge, though I have not laid eyes on her since I was seventeen." 

"And you are angry at her?" 

"Aye," Chris said, "though I know I am daft to be cross. Still, I find myself blaming her for my troubles. All she ever did to me was give me life then do her best to see I live it. I suppose she might even love that boar of a man she wed, though I doubt it. She came to him spoiled. No one in this world ever let her forget it. She was thirteen when I was born." 

"Just a child," JC said. 

"Aye. I nearly killed her in childbirth, too. I am as much to fault for her troubles as she is for mine. This world is terrible, JC, let no man tell you otherwise. But whatever hate blackened my heart, it seems to fade with each passing day. Replaced by love, I would think." 

"I am not ashamed to be like you," JC said. "To feel anger like you do." 

"Aye, but you know forgiveness, too, and that is something that has always escaped me."


	49. Chapter 49

JC felt sleep come to him in restless spurts. Chris slept behind him, a heavy arm thrown round JC’s waist. The rain tapered off as the noise did below. JC noticed the difference through the heavy fog clouding his brain. Dreams wove themselves in his waking thoughts. _Am I haunted by that book?_ JC thought. The desperate slant of the letters, the smudge of the parchment. All of it reminded him of his mother’s great struggle to give him what little she could. 

And there was so much more of it. Pages upon pages of unspoken history. It hurt JC’s head to think about, yet even when he dipped into sleep, he dreamt of reading it. When he tried again, he would not do it alone. Those first words. Those he had needed to explore on his own. But the ache in head, in his belly. Chris’s presence would soothe it. It always did. 

Chris slept fitfully. More than once, he rolled forward and nearly smothered JC in the blankets. He woke twice to check the door. Each time, JC heightened his breath so Chris would think him gone to sleep. It rarely worked. Chris merely kissed his lips and fell back to dreams. Whatever nightmare held his thoughts, JC did not know. His legs ached from Chris’s kicking. 

JC had almost drifted off when a loud pounding came upon the door. At once, Chris was out of the bed and clutching his knife. Despite his nakedness, he held himself as a man ready for battle. JC cowered behind the sheets drawn up to his nose. The frantic knocking continued. 

"Get dressed and gather your things," Chris whispered. "And be quiet about it." 

With each thump of the door, JC’s heart jumped. His hands shook so hard he could scarcely get his breeches up his legs. Lacing them proved impossible, and his boot refused his foot until he had tugged on it thrice. Chris was already dressed. The length of his blade glinted the light that shone in beneath the door. He pressed his ear to the wood and listened, but even he jumped when the knocks resumed their frenzied noise. 

"Hide yourself in the corner," Chris said. "If I tell you to run, you will do it." 

JC nodded. He pressed himself against the splintered wall and willed the darkness to swallow him. He clutched his things to his chest and closed his eyes. The chair scraped across the floor then the latch of the door came loose with a click. Soon after, the rasp of Chris’s voice. 

"Who are you?" 

"You have to run from here." A girl’s voice split the dark. She sounded frightened and near tears. JC could not blame her when he felt the same. "It is not safe. I heard my father talk. He seeks to ambush you while you sleep. My sister, no, my brother. He travels with you. _Jacie_." 

JC opened his eyes. _Laura_ , he thought. "Chris, she is whom she says she is." 

"And we should trust her?" Chris asked. He had his fist twisted in the thin fabric of her shift. He had pressed her against the closed door. Her naked toes barely touched the floor. Before JC could step forth and force his hand, Chris let her go. "Why should we trust you?" 

"He will kill you," she said. "If he catches me here, he will kill me, too." 

"How am I to know you are not a murderer sent into our midst?" 

The pale of Laura’s eyes opened wide. "How am I to prove it, except by my word?" 

Despite it all, JC smiled behind his hand. Chris narrowed his eyes, yet JC could not stop. Under his breath, Chris mumbled, "Well, I have no doubt she is your sister. Logic like that is bred in a person." Still, the moment of merriment was fleeting. "Tell me, then, what you heard." 

"He says you are guilty of. You are guilty of." She chewed the lower flesh of her lip into her mouth and wrinkled her brow. JC peered at her curiously from behind Chris’s shoulder. The youngest girl, he remembered her most vividly as a child. "Of so ... sodee ... sodem ..." 

"Sodomy," Chris said. Colour drained from his face. 

Laura nodded. 

_Sodomy_. JC could not tell what the word meant from the disgust that twisted Chris’s mouth, except that it was likely a heinous crime and that Chris had expected it. At once, JC’s belly dropped to his knees. Chris seemed no better. The slump of his shoulders betrayed him. 

"Are they close?" Chris asked. He took Laura by the elbows and held her close. Laura kept her eyes wide open but did not answer him. "Tell me, have we even time to run?" He shook her then, catching himself, let her go. When he withdrew, JC put a hand on his back. 

"I can run as fast you need me to," JC whispered. 

In a heartbeat, Chris grabbed his pack and his cloak. He threw open the door then cocked his head. Noise brewed down below. Men’s voices, heated to anger, yet no other sounds. Laura looked at him, her hair a mass of wet, tangled curls. Not yet a woman but soon enough for it. 

"There is no way down unless we seek to throw ourselves into fire," Chris said. He closed his eyes for a moment. "Tell me if I am wrong, but on the side of the Inn closest to the stables, there is a stand used to sell goods to travellers. Made of wood. A slanted roof." 

"There is," JC said. He could see it in his mind’s eye. "You mean for us to jump?" 

"Unless you prefer death, aye. Follow me, the both of you." 

JC did not breathe again until his feet touched the mud. They had woken a young couple from bed as they darted through their room. Chris had kept them moving so fast JC doubted the couple would think it anything but a dream come morning. Through the window, Chris had gone first then Laura followed. Chris caught her as she slid down the roof. JC landed without help, yet when he touched the ground, he dropped his mirror and broke it. Chris swore when he saw it. 

"In a day, remind me that superstition turns men into dullards." 

JC gathered the broken pieces. He said nothing. At Chris’s signal, they darted to the stables. There was a man asleep on the hay. He stunk of whiskey and bile. JC tripped over his foot and nearly woke him. Chris grabbed him by the hair and steadied his legs. He nearly took JC’s scalp with him when he removed his hand. Dazed, JC stumbled after him to the horses. 

Still clutching his pack to his breast, JC untied Fleur from his post one-handed. JC mounted him quickly and rode out before Chris to the shouts of angry men wielding fiery torches and silver axes. Fleur reared his legs and turned at the sight. They nearly smashed into Alistair, who snorted and whinnied in shock. 

"Whatever you do, do not stop and do not turn around. Trust that I will follow you," Chris said. His arms were empty save for his fingers twisted in the reins. He kicked out his boot and caught Fleur in the rump. Like lightning through the sky, Fleur darted forth across the mud. 

JC could only tangle his full hand in the leather strap to save himself from falling. He bowed to keep his pack to his chest. They moved so quick his free hand could not catch the reins. Joe had warned him Fleur was old and slow, yet he moved quicker than wind. As he rode, he saw Laura running across the moor. With a strength he did not think his arm possessed, he pulled her to Fleur’s back and settled her between his legs. Faster and faster, Fleur galloped. 

Under the cover of trees, Fleur heeded JC’s tug on his reins and stopped. Beneath her halo of curls, Laura looked up at him. He could see his mother in her, more than he could in his own face. She slid from Fleur’s back but not before she pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. 

"Will you be treated well if I leave you here?" JC asked. 

"Well enough," Laura said. "But you will not be." 

JC nodded. The urge to turn his head and look back was strong. Fleur shifted nervously beneath him, stomping in place. "You have the kindness and beauty of our mother, Laura." In the distance, he could hear the roar of men and the trill of horses. "I must go. My thanks." 

"You are my brother," she said. "I could not let them harm you." 

How long he rode, he did not know. He felt Chris behind him, though he could neither see him nor hear him. A fog had rolled in, thicker than oatmeal and carrying a bitter chill. Fleur walked through it slowly, taking each step with utmost care. JC felt the hair rise on his arms. 

"Chris?" JC ventured. He was blind except for the grey haze that covered his eyes. 

"Aye?" 

"Nothing," JC said. Breath came back into his chest, and he tightened his arms around his pack. "Well, perhaps something," he admitted. He stirred his courage and asked with only the slightest quiver in his voice, "What is sodomy?" 

"What we do," Chris said. "Sodomites. What we are." 

JC wished the fog had not made him blind. "I did not know there was a name for it." 

Chris chuckled low in his throat. It came out with a sharp edge, like the blade of a sword. "Aye, there are a dozen names for men like us, and none of them pleasant. Never let Joe hear you say that in his presence. He takes offense. It is distasteful, you see. Pay it no mind." 

They rode until sunrise, when the fogged parted, and they found themselves at a river bend. Fleur stepped into it before JC pulled him back and turned him around. It was only then that JC noticed Chris’s shirt was covered in blood. He lifted his hand when JC started to speak. 

"They merely split the skin. Did your sister find her way?" 

JC nodded. 

"Good, then." Chris had a crimson-soaked hand pressed under his arm. Still, he wore a weary smile on his face. JC grinned at him, though it hurt to pull his bruised cheek. "I would not mind a drink of whiskey and a bandage for my wound, if you will. I can scarcely move." 

As Chris said, the wound was not deep. JC washed it with river-water then tore Chris’s shirt to strips. He knotted them around Chris’s ribs until he hissed. From the fight, he was bruised all over and his joints ached, which Chris complained about loudly until JC made him swallow a mouthful of whiskey. JC checked on Alistair, whom had his tail singed by a torch. 

"He will try to kill us again," JC said. He took a piece of the bread Chris offered. "Me." 

"Aye. But Ireland is big enough for us all. Joe has more enemies than that after his skin. Whether it be a curse or a lost maidenhead, anger turns men into monsters. I would not worry about it," Chris said. Still, he kept his hand against his side. His words came with an air of pain. 

"I have made such trouble for us," JC said. He kicked at the nearest tree and hurt his foot. 

"Trouble follows me like a plague. I have grown used to it." 

JC kicked the tree again. The pain took away from the uncomfortable twist in his belly. "Will you be serious a moment?" 

"I am," Chris said. He lowered himself to his back and rolled to his side. JC could not help himself from kneeling by him to rub his back. Chris cracked an eyelid. "But this is the life I know how to live. You may have been swapped for Joe, but I did not expect it to be any easier." 

"I am not more trouble than I am worth?" JC asked. The knot in his belly finally unravelled. 

"No. _Joe_ was more trouble than he was worth, and I kept him around for a good many years. More, if he had not suddenly woken to responsibility and decided to marry." Chris kissed the flat of JC’s hand though it was daylight. "Now, hush and let me rest, will you? I ache." 

When Chris was asleep, JC opened his book and read. He kept his hand in Chris’s hair.


	50. Chapter 50

"Holy God," Chris said. He crossed himself before he caught his hand and held it. 

JC put his hand to his nose to block the stink. The excitement he had felt when he recognised the town as the place they had met Danielle so many months prior faded in an instant. The wretched smell in the air churned his breakfast. JC plugged his nose. 

"This town has gone to waste," Chris said. "It reeks of plague." 

"They are sick?" 

"Aye, if they are lucky. Dead, if they are not." Chris dismounted, landing heavily upon the damp soil. It had rained off and on throughout the day. They had slept in the same steady drizzle, huddled together under the useless canvas of the tent. "We have come too late." 

JC looked around. Under his cloak, he shivered. By the gateway to the city, however, he saw a single old man sitting on a stool with his head bowed. JC tugged at Chris’s cloak then tilted his head. Chris followed his eyes to the man. Slowly, they pulled the horses up the path. 

"You cannot go in there," the old man said. He had no teeth and a scraggly white beard. 

"Are there survivors?" Chris asked. 

"Aye, a few, I would gather. You would be daft, boy, to go in looking for them." 

"Is the dressmaker, Danielle, still living?" Chris asked. 

"The French whore, you mean?" The man cracked a crooked grin. JC put his hand on Chris’s arm before he could defend her virtue. The man’s eyes flickered once to the touch, but it did not hold his attention. JC stepped back. "Long gone. One of the first, if I remember." 

"Her child, then?" Chris asked. 

"I have not seen her. She likely followed her mother," the man said. 

Chris and the old man argued until, finally, Chris threw up his arms and stomped away. JC followed with the horses in hand. His nostrils still burned with the stink, but it seemed less. JC tied the horses to a tree. Chris took his tattered, bloodstained shirt and ripped it further. When JC opened his mouth to question, Chris tied a strip tightly around it. It smelled like Chris. 

Though JC did not understand, he changed his breeches when Chris pushed a new pair at him. They were big around his waist even when he laced them tightly. Chris tossed a length of shirtsleeves at him. JC knotted it around his hips and followed Chris when he moved again. 

Chris dropped the satchel of coin on the man’s hand as they passed. He had a smaller one stuffed in the rise of his boot, JC knew. Joe had sent them heavy with coin to buy Marie from Danielle, which seemed a moot point now. JC understood that Chris had bought their way in. 

The streets, once so bustling with people and animals, were empty save for two men wrapped wholly in white except for their eyes. Behind them, they pulled a cart. In that cart were three bodies covered in blankets, their naked and rotting feet sticking over the edge. JC swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. He forced himself to follow Chris. 

Still, JC walked over the cobblestone with memory heavy on his shoulders. His feet, which had not ached for months, suddenly brought a burst of pain, but he did not stumble in his walk. Each step he took was careful. He remembered the last time he walked these roads. The whore. Chris. In each window, he glanced at the emptiness left behind. Overturned tables and broken doors, candles burnt down to the wick and half-empty plates rotting on the ground. 

Chris walked so steadily it was as if he had finally found his way in the world. When they passed Danielle’s house, JC knew he had not and was driven by some deeper force. By the sleeve, he led Chris back to the broken door. Inside, there was nothing left of the dresses that had once hung so gloriously in the window of the shop. Two chairs had been overturned. 

"Marie!" Chris’s words echoed off the bare walls. "Marie!" 

"Do not yell," JC said. "She is only a babe. You will scare her." 

"Then help me search for her," Chris said. "She must still be alive." 

They checked the kitchen, which was empty save for a rat that scurried across the floor. Chris jumped out of the way to let it pass. The pantry was equally barren, though three clay pots had tipped on the floor and spilled dark jellies, which were now dry. It seemed hopeless. 

On the top, there was still nothing. Two gutted pillows and a split mattress, but there was no sign of life at all. The smell was strongest there. JC felt it burn his nose even though fabric covered it. Through the veil, JC remembered, he had always been able to smell the most horrid things while the sweet scents from flora and dew had escaped him. 

There was an overturned stool, and Chris righted it. Once seated, Chris buried his face in his hands. His skin bled defeat. JC could almost taste it on his tongue. Without a word, JC sat at Chris’s knees and put his head down. Chris put a hand in his curls and held it there. 

"He cannot have lost another one," Chris murmured. His voice came wet and rough. 

JC pressed his cheek to Chris’s thigh and let himself be pet. Above him, Chris made soft sounds as if he cried. _Perhaps he does_ , JC thought. With a single hand, he rubbed softly over Chris’s leg. It was only then that he saw eyes peer at him from behind Chris’s stool. They blinked from sight, and for a moment he thought he imagined them, but they opened again. 

"She is behind you," JC whispered. She had pressed herself into a small cupboard beneath a row of barren shelves. In her small hand, JC could see the filthy doll for which he had made dresses from his veils. Dirt covered her from head to toe. Only her cheeks were clean. 

"Is she living?" Chris asked. At the sound of his voice, Marie ducked out of sight. 

"Yes," JC said. He glanced around Chris’s legs and caught her eyes again. Chris, as if he realised, stayed very still. On his hands and knees, JC moved slowly to the cupboard. Inside it, Marie had almost disappeared. She did not recognise his face. There was no way to lure her out. 

"Can you grab her?" Chris asked. 

"I do not wish to frighten her," JC said softly. 

He sang to her, then, for he could think of nothing else to gain her trust. As a young girl, he recalled the lullabies his mother sang to him so sweetly. The song that came to him was one his mother had sung to him. It was low and gentle, spoken in a secret language his mother had taught him as a child. His tongue had effortlessly switched to it, calling upon its sweet and calming words. It reminded him of his mother and her strength. Courage swelled in his chest. 

With each note, Marie seemed to come closer. In time, the song fell away, though he still spoke to her in that same secret tongue. Softly, he called her "petite fleur" and "belle enfant." Each endearment was one his mother had called him. JC had not even thought of such words since his mother’s death. They seemed to spark some recognition in Marie’s dark eyes. Closer and closer she crept until, finally, she was near enough to take into his arms. Though it was cold, she was wearing only a torn shift. He hugged her close and offered all the warmth he had. 

Without a word, JC followed Chris down the steep staircase. Each step, he took gently. In his grip, Marie shivered and shook. Her dark hair had tangled into a nest of knots that caught on his fingers when he smoothed a hand against her head. She kept it bowed on his shoulder. 

At the gate, Chris argued with the old man again. Over what, JC did not know, but he thought Chris meant to distract his eyes from Marie as JC smuggled her out. Though she was thin and small, she seemed healthy enough. Her breath came steady against his neck. 

JC walked until he saw the horses. There he stopped. Chris walked past him and set to making a fire. JC walked with Marie until she stopped her quivering. When the wood rose to flame, JC sat aside it and cradled Marie on his lap. In one hand, she still held the doll. She kept the thumb of the other in her mouth. Softly, he stroked her cheek and rocked her in his arms. 

"We have to burn these clothes," Chris said. He whisked his shirt from his body and tossed it into the flame. Under his arm, JC could see blood soaked through the bandages. It was a bright vivid red. When Chris caught him looking, he lowered his arms. "Undress her, then." 

Though it was cold and he felt like a monster, JC pulled Marie free of the soiled shift. She kept still, which made him worry. He could count each of her ribs. Keeping hold of her by one hand, JC removed his own clothes and dropped them into a pile. Chris threw the whole of it into the fire then snatched the doll from Marie’s fingers. It was only then that she started to cry. 

"Do you have to?" JC asked. 

Chris nodded. 

Into the flame, the doll was tossed. JC covered Marie’s eyes with his palm. 

Chris had set a pot to boil then removed it, setting it down in the wet grass. When JC looked at him again, he had dipped a cloth into the scalding water with a branch. Chris took it out and let it cool for barely a heartbeat before he scrubbed his flesh pink. Chris did not flinch at all. 

"It will hurt her," JC said when Chris turned to them. 

"I will be as gentle as I can be," Chris said. Right then his gaze dropped. When it rose again, his dark eyes were glimmering like the ocean at night. Deep and sorrowing, and unendingly so. His voice was low. "I need you to check if she has been in any way ... injured." 

"How so?" 

"You will know to see it," Chris said. 

JC knelt by her and checked for harm, but there was nothing beyond the filthy skin of a young, traumatised girl, and he said as much. His hands were shaking. Chris bowed his head and thanked God under his breath. Still, there was much trouble getting her washed, and all three of them cried before it was done. 

Later, skin still warm, JC took a knife to one of his skirts. Chris had teased him once for dragging the whole of his life around, but he said nothing now as JC sliced through the cloth. Chris worked on scrubbing their boots. He had nearly burned them too. JC won that argument. Marie was wrapped to the ears with a blanket. She had long since cried herself to sleep. 

"We will be no good to Joe dead," Chris said when he caught JC watching her. 

"I know," JC said. He tore the scraps of his skirt with his hands, though they ached. 

"I did not mean to hurt her." 

"I know." JC looked over at him. His brow dipped heavy with guilt. "I know, Chris." 

JC twisted and knotted a strip of skirt into the shape of a doll. Around its soft waist, he tied a piece of blue cloth that he cut from a veil. He secured a crooked blue bow around its head. When he showed it to Chris, Chris smiled and bowed his head. Still, he looked sad and guilty. 

JC woke Marie from slumber and dressed her. He diapered her with fabric ripped from one of his underskirts then wrapped her legs and feet with the same to keep her warm. The skirt was too wide around her waist. He tightened it with a belt. The shirt, he rolled up at the sleeves. 

There were still many travelling hours left to the day. They had been closer than JC had guessed from the scrawl of the map. Still, they took time to eat. Marie ate two shares of bread, though JC had to sit her on his lap and feed her small pieces with his fingers. He mixed a little whiskey with water and made her drink. Chris had suggested it to ensure she slept. 

"Is she sick?" JC asked. 

"Starving and thirsty, no doubt, but I do not think she is ill." With the greatest care, he touched her soft brow and stroked free the dark hair. "If one of us rides with her tied to our back, we can cover her with a cloak and protect her feet and hands from the cold." 

"I will do it," JC said. Though he did not act it, JC knew Chris was still in pain. 

Ripping another skirt to shreds, JC bent forward as Chris bound Marie. With her mouth against the back of his neck, JC could check her breathing. Chris brought the cloak around them both and fastened it at JC’s neck. He lifted the hood so it touched JC’s brow. 

"Is she too heavy?" 

"I can barely feel her weight," JC said. When he stood, it was as if he only carried a pack. He shifted her slightly so she lay more comfortably against him. She did not wake. With a cold hand, Chris put the doll on him between hip and breeches. "It should be a quick trip to Joe." 

"Aye." Chris put his hands on JC’s cheeks. "You know I love you?" 

"I know," JC said. They put their lips together for a moment. "You know I love you?" 

"Aye," Chris said. "I know that, too." 

If the old man saw, they did not care. They kissed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _petite fleur_  
>  "little flower" 
> 
> _belle enfant_  
>  "beautiful child"


	51. Chapter 51

In a village that consisted of one rundown tavern, they stopped for food. Though his own belly was empty, Chris felt no hunger. Instead, he asked the tavern keeper if they had a messenger in town. They did. He asked if they had a physician. They did not. 

As JC fed Marie a warm bowl of potatoes and broth, Chris took the quill he had borrowed and scrawled a quick note upon a stained piece of parchment. It had been a year, at least, since he had last written a word, but he still had the skill. The ink stained his fingers dark as pitch. 

When the letters had dried, he folded the paper and sealed it with wax. Into the soft mark, he scrawled a C and a K with his knife. On the front of the note, he addressed it to Joe. From across the table, JC watched him. His eyes flickered down then up again. 

"Is that Joe’s full name?" JC asked. He moved his lips as he read. "Joe Fat One?" 

"Fatone," Chris said. He blended the words together in his mouth. Joe had spent a three day journey perfecting the sound of it. He said it seemed exotic and foreign, far more than his real name did. "And no. His full name would take an hour to tell you, and I cannot remember most of it." 

JC lifted a brow. In his arms, he rocked Marie to sleep. 

"It is a joke. Fat one," Chris explained. "It is the name for his," Chris lowered his voice and waved an ink-stained hand at his own breeches, "for his cock." The second brow on JC rose sky high, and Chris felt heat move to his ears. "Not wholly accurate, but Joe is prone to exaggeration." 

With JC still laughing behind him, Chris took the note to the messenger and gave him all the coin he carried save a small handful for emergencies. If JC read the maps right, they would need only another meal or two before they arrived at Joe’s house. Chris would take no chances. 

Outside, the wind was bitingly cold. It cut through the heavy wool of their cloaks. Rain was sparse, and when it came, it left them only damp. It misted more than it poured. At times, Marie would wake from her sleep and cry "mama! mama!" until JC hushed her with the calming sway of Fleur’s steady walk and the steady murmur of gentle lullabies. Chris understood little of it. JC’s soft songs were in no tongue he recognised, though he thought it might be Gaelic. 

Alistair threw him from the saddle only once, startled by some furry creature that crossed their path. Chris hit hard upon the ground and tore open his festering wound, which had scarcely begun to knit. Harsh pain blacked across his eyes for a moment and bile rose to his throat. Still, he mounted again, damp to the knees with mud and water. Under his cloak, he rode with one hand in the reins and the other pressed tight against his side. In time, the pain faded to numbness. 

They stopped for the night under a large tilted collection of stones, wrapped in blankets and furs, with Marie cradled between them. Chris did not sleep at all. Each sound offered by the night terrified him. He kept one hand on his blade and the other on JC’s hip. Miraculously, JC slept. In the dim glow of moonlight, Chris watched his face and committed it to memory. 

With morning came a heavy, bitter snow. Whatever winter was upon them, Chris did not recognise it. Snow came later in the season if it came at all. He thought back to the shattered mirror then pushed it from his head. _Bad luck does not exist_ , Chris thought. He padded JC and Marie with furs and blankets, taking none for himself. Despite the cold, Chris was warm. 

They rode in utter silence while the wind whistled and screamed. Snow rushed around them, worse than any fog Chris had ever seen. There were pockets of relief when JC would pull out his maps and look to whatever signals were hidden along the road. At times, he tried to show Chris where they were, but Chris could not see them. His useless eyes blurred the distance. 

The sun had begun to dip in the sky when JC said, "I do not know where we are." 

Chris looked at him. Words dried in his mouth. 

"I thought I did." JC pulled a crinkled map from his breeches and looked at it. His hand shook. Chris could hear Marie weeping above the wind. "But the sun is in the wrong position." His brow creased as he looked around. A desperation Chris felt in his own skin turned his mouth downward. "I have lost the way, and I cannot find it again in this storm." 

Chris felt the cold then, cutting deep to his bones. "Can you find a house?" 

"Yes. I see one from where I sit," JC said. 

"Then take us there," Chris said. It came too roughly from his mouth, and JC flinched. At once, Chris softened his face. "Perhaps, they will take pity," he added. 

Before they knocked, Chris untied Marie from JC’s back. JC held her against his chest as Chris brought his knuckles upon the wooden door. He knocked thrice before stepping back. Wind and snow roared around them. The cold speared Chris to his bones. After a moment, the door opened. 

"Can I help you?" The young man asked. Behind him, Chris could see five women. From the look of them, he thought they must be sisters. 

"We have come to ask you if you could spare shelter for some lost travellers. In this storm, we have lost the way, and we carry with us a young child." Chris held out his hand, though the man did not take it. "I am Chris Kilpatrick. This is my brother, Joshua," Chris moved his hand in JC’s direction, "and my niece and his daughter, Marie." 

"Are you Catholic?" He asked. He looked them each from head to toe. 

"Aye. Irish Catholic, if that matters," Chris said. From the look of him, the man had too much wealth and too nice a home on fertile lands to be Irish. Old English, then, and less likely to hold Ireland against him. "If you can spare any help at all, we would be grateful." 

At last, the man gripped Chris’s hand and shook. "Aye. You are welcome in my home. I am Howard Dorough. And these are my sisters." His mouth split into a wide grin. "I would tell you their names, but even my mother, bless her soul, could scarcely remember them. Come in." 

Howard’s five sisters were all dark-haired and brown-eyed, dressed in peasant dresses adorned with finely woven lace. All of them were older than their brother, though he took care of them in place of his dead parents. Chris learned this all as they prepared supper and Howard talked. He seemed craved for conversation with men and admitted as much with a warm laugh. 

"Are either of you looking to take a bride?" Howard asked as the girls set the table and poured them each a glass of warm buttermilk. Though the bustle dizzied Chris’s head, Howard seemed hardly to notice. "You would have your pick. The eldest is twenty-three, and the youngest nineteen. They each come with land and a handsome dowry." 

"And you?" JC asked. He held a cup to Marie’s lips as she drank. 

"Eighteen," Howard replied, "and not fit to be wed, though my thanks for the offer." 

JC blushed a hot red as the horde of girls giggled. Even Chris felt his lips part in a smile, though he struggled to keep them closed. The tone of Howard’s voice was light and merry, and he toasted JC before drinking from his cup. Those two spent the rest of the night scouring JC’s maps. They had wandered too far west for not one day but two, in Longford instead of Kildare. 

Later, they were shuffled to the stables as the girls took Marie to bed. Men and virgins, Howard said without apology, were not to be trusted together. JC went straight to the horses and rubbed them down. He fed and watered them. Chris watched him with half-open eyes. Beneath his shirt, the wound throbbed with each erratic thump of his heart. Pain crept over his skin. 

JC returned and dropped upon the hay. The crack of his spine was loud as he stretched. In the light of the lamp, his cheeks were rosy red and his blue eyes shone. With a hand, he combed through Chris’s hair and worked free the knots. Chris closed his eyes and let him. 

"Are you well?" JC asked softly. 

"Tired," Chris said. He bowed his head so JC would rub at his neck. "Saddle-sore." 

A strangled noise escaped from his throat. When Chris cracked an eye to look at him, he had the good grace to blush. "It is just that, well. Two days ago, I might have complained about such a thing." His voice dropped to a low hum. "While I like you in me, it aches later to ride." 

"Poor arse," Chris said and gripped the small rump in his hand. 

JC’s fingers danced down his neck. Beneath his curls, his eyes narrowed. "Are you sure you are well?" He dragged a single finger across the arc of Chris’s brow. Chris had no doubt JC plucked a small river from it. "You seem off, Chris." 

Chris forced a smile to his dry lips. "Do I?" 

"Yes." 

"Well, if you extinguish the light, I will show you how well I feel," Chris said. His hand still on JC’s arse, Chris pulled him close so their cocks touched through their breeches. Though exhaustion hung on his bones, Chris felt himself harden and was glad. Already, JC was stiff. 

When the lamp was out, JC came back into his arms. Though it was dark, he found his way without trouble and pressed a warm kiss to Chris’s mouth. They embraced mouth to mouth until they were both breathless and warm. Sweat dripped down Chris’s neck and soaked his shirt. 

"Are you angry with me?" JC asked. "I lost the path." 

"No. Do not trouble your mind with those worries. If I have been dour, it is for reasons that have nothing to do with you." Chris deeply kissed JC’s down-turned mouth, keeping a hand low on his hip. "When a man follows and never leads, he knows better than to complain." 

"Your eyes are bad," JC said. It came with no lingering question stuck to it. 

"Aye," Chris said. "I cannot see more than the length of two men before me." 

With his thumb, JC touched each of his eyelids so they closed. Then, one by one, he kissed them, gentle as the flap of a moth’s wings. Chris held his breath in his chest until he ached. When he let it go, JC caught it in his mouth. Into Chris’s ear, he whispered, "you are so handsome, Chris Kilpatrick." 

"You have not seen enough men," Chris said. 

"By now, I have seen enough to know I have the most handsome man in Ireland to love me. You think I am blind?" JC nipped at his lower lip and pulled with his teeth. Chris followed the tug and kissed him instead. With one hand, Chris pulled him nearer. "You know I am right." 

"I know you are stubborn as a mule." 

"And always right," JC said. He dipped a daring hand into the front of Chris’s breeches and gripped him. Chris felt a groan rise to his throat. Struggling, he barely caught it. "And I think it is your manhood that should be called ‘fat one,’ not Joe’s. Though I admit," Chris could feel the slice of JC’s wide grin on his face, "I have no point of comparison." 

"Ach, you are awful." 

"And always right," JC reminded him. 

Aware of the danger, they removed only their breeches and pulled a blanket over them. For that, at least, Chris was grateful. The bandage wrapped around his chest was stained dark and no sight for JC to see, if he could at all in the pitch darkness. Chris would not risk it. 

Like virgins, they fumbled with each other in the hay and shadows until they settled. JC sat over him and rubbed at Chris’s cock with deliberate rolls of his narrow hips. His deft fingers plucked at Chris’s nipples and rolled them with his thumbs. Bowed, JC laved them wetly with his tongue then suckled until Chris lifted his hips and nearly threw him. 

"Can you reach my pack?" JC asked. He kept his hands on the flat of Chris’s chest. The pressure did not increase the ache of his side but assuage it. It allowed him to grab the pot of oil. JC scooped his fingers through it then slicked Chris’s cock. "I will ride you," he whispered. 

"Whatever you like," Chris said. His eyes pressed shut when he slipped inside. Hotter than hell, Chris would bet his life on it, and tighter than any man could squeeze. JC rooted himself full and deep on Chris’s cock. Chris felt the heavy weight of balls on his belly. 

JC moved like no man should, a slow sensuous dance that belonged only to women and ones with loose morals at that. Though lethargy pulled at him, Chris ignored it. The roll of JC’s hips, the scratch of his fingers, the pant of his mouth. Those were Chris’s sweet dreams. Pleasure churned in his belly and vanquished the pain from his body. Fear left his mind. 

JC milked him till he came off, stuck deep in JC’s small arse. It came so quick that Chris nearly missed it, though he wilted fast and slipped out. Exhaustion fogged his brain. Still, the weeping cock on his belly reminded him the dance was not yet done. Gently, Chris rolled JC to his back. The hay provided a soft bed as Chris moved between JC’s legs and suckled tight. 

One hand on JC’s hip, the other pressed tight to his own side, Chris lapped at him like a thirsty man drawn to water. When the pain in his chest lessened, he took that attending hand and circled JC’s cock. Chris moved the loose hood of skin between his fingers, drawing it up and down his cockhead. With his tongue, Chris wet his balls and kissed them. 

"You are very good at that," JC murmured. He sounded like a man drunk on ale. 

Chris smiled. 

When JC came off, Chris caught it in his mouth. The taste was bitter and salty, and it churned his empty stomach. Still, he held it in. It was daft, he knew, but it was a sin to spill seed outside a woman’s body. A sin to waste it. While JC was no woman, Chris did what he could, though he sinned all the while doing it. There were times he could not catch it and felt guilty after. 

JC was half asleep when Chris came back to him. With steady hands, Chris massaged his tense back until he was gone completely to dreams. Chris stroked his face then. In the dark, it seemed easier to memorise each slant of bone. In Chris’s mind, his face was forever etched. 

With the flask of whiskey in one hand and the oil lamp in the other, Chris walked to the back of the stable. The snow came thick and white. It chilled the sweat on his skin to ice. Still, Chris lit the lamp. On a stump of wood, he sat and removed his shirt. Carefully, he pulled the bandage from his skin. It stuck in places, wet with blood and pus. Bumps rose on his flesh. 

With fear turning in his belly, he put his fingers to the long cut. They came back slick with liquid and hot as hellfire. _Still bleeding_ , Chris thought, _still after all this time_. 

Chris ran his blade through the fire and cleaned it. Putting a piece of wood between his teeth, he braced for the pain. As gentle as he could, scarcely able to see at all, he carved the rot from the wound. Tears sprung to his eyes, but he made no sound save for a whimper. In time, he got the whole of it. He washed the cut with whiskey. With shaking hands, he bandaged it again.


	52. Chapter 52

A slice of light across his eyes told him it was morning. Chris had not slept a wink. All night beside him, JC had slept, curled on his side and with his chin to his knees. Outside, the snow was already gone from sight, leaving no hint of it behind. Still bitterly chill, but green, too. 

When JC woke, Chris asked, "are we near Westmeath?" 

"A day’s ride," JC replied. He used his thumb to judge the distance on the crinkled map. 

"Will it put us behind to stop there?" 

A huge yawn escape from his lips. JC shook his head. "No more than we are already." 

"I have to see my mother," Chris said. 

They bid farewell to Howard and his sisters and rode out. Marie slept for the whole of the morning, so JC was quiet. Chris felt his own silence well in him. His wound burned like fire. It oozed less that morning, but bright red blood still leaked through the cotton. Chris could smell it even above the stink of whiskey. Fever scorched his eyes and heated them to flame. 

To settle his head, he kept his sight on JC. On his chin, the beard had begun to sprout again. Chris smiled each time JC rubbed at it in mute irritation. _He will hate it when it covers his face_ , Chris thought. It would happen soon enough. Already, Chris noticed the difference on his body. His chest, which had been so plainly smooth months ago, had been touched with a light dusting of fine brown hairs. They were soft like feathers. 

_What a handsome man_ , Chris thought. Beautiful beyond all words, but handsome too in the angles of his face and the muscles of his body. How he had grown into his skin. Chris felt blessed to have witnessed it. To have, perhaps, helped him, despite the trouble he offered, too. 

By mid-afternoon, the rain started. It drizzled from the grey clouds. Chris welcomed it for the relief from the heat. It cooled his burning face. Head tilted back, he opened his mouth and swallowed the drops as they fell. When Chris levelled his head, his eyes met JC’s bright ones. 

They shared a secret smile. It touched his heart like the deepest of kisses. 

To find his mother’s house, Chris knew, they had to watch for a tree shaped like a woman with child near the borders where Westmeath, Offaly and Meath met. JC swore that it would be marked, and they would not miss it, despite the trouble of Chris’s eyes. JC was the first to see it. 

"There!" Happily, JC pointed and grinned as bright as sunshine. 

_The trouble with Ireland_ , Chris thought, _is that to a blind man it all looks the same._

As they came closer, there was no mistaking it. At once, his arse seemed to fill, and his belly dropped to his knees. Chris was keenly aware of his blade and its heavy weight on his thigh. Fever wracked his body all the while. Chris knew he was too weak to defend himself if it came to that, and there was still the trouble that he would no sooner set foot on that man’s land than he would marry a woman ever again. They stopped at the tree and rested. 

"If you wish," JC said, "I can go to the door and call on her." 

Chris swallowed a mouthful of cool water. "I cannot ask you to do that." 

"I offer," JC said. He took Chris’s hand and squeezed it. The other held Marie on his lap as he gently rocked her. She was awake though quiet, a thumb plucked firmly in her mouth. "And I am not at all convinced you can make it to the door without soiling your breeches." 

"I doubt I could," Chris admitted. 

JC left Chris with Marie then began the short trip to the house. Chris lost sight of him quickly. Instead, he turned his attention to Marie. She was smaller than Brianna, though she was the elder, but she had the same thick hair and eyes dark as mud. He could see Joe in her face. 

A shout roused his attention, and JC came merrily bounding across the field. Close behind him, Chris’s mother jogged. Only thirty-seven, the years showed in her face like she was twice that. Still, she had the kind eyes he remembered as a young boy, when he had felt nothing but love for her. 

"Christopher Alan," she said. She wiped her hands on her apron. It was smudged with dirt. 

There were no words he could utter. His throat dried to sun-soaked hay, but he stepped to her and felt his arms circle her soft middle. Years of likely childbirth had plumped her out and made her round. A hand came to his hair and held his face to her shoulder. The other, around his waist and squeezing tight. Pain streaked through his body, but he ignored it. 

"I thought this boy told me lies. What would my wayward son, I said, be doing here?" 

"I thought it time," Chris said. 

"You have come in time for supper, I can grant you that. And who is this sweet thing?" She reached for Marie, who stared at her with wide, wet eyes. The doll was clutched in her small hand. Her thumb, still between her teeth. "She is not my granddaughter, I hope." 

"No," Chris said. Reluctantly, he smiled. "The child of a friend." 

"Good. I am not that old," she said. JC grinned at her, and she laughed, reaching to ruffle his messy hair. However long JC had been gone, Chris did not know, but he seemed to have endeared himself completely to Chris’s mother. "And this boy is too young to be a father." 

"This is my _dear_ friend, JC," Chris said. Bravely, he touched a hand to JC’s elbow. 

"We have met already," JC said. 

"Aye." She shifted Marie to her hip and headed back in the direction of the house. Gaily, she waved an inviting hand through the air. "Come then, lest supper be too cold to eat or the girls grow ravenous. I know travelling men have appetites that would put a horse to shame." 

Chris made no move, even when JC urged him with a gentle push. 

"He is not here," she said without turning, though she stopped in her steps. Her head, brushed with strands of grey, dipped forward. "And he will not return for a week, at least. I would not invite you, Christopher, if I knew that man was within a day’s ride of here." 

"I would be breaking my word," he said. Who he said it to, he did not know. 

His mother answered, "then I give you my word that you are safe on these lands." 

Though his legs felt like lead, he followed. Alistair pulled on his reins then, failing that, he snapped his teeth at Chris’s face. Chris smacked him clearly on the nose, and only then did Alistair nuzzle a long moment. Though he knew he should be angry, it helped his nerves, and he smiled. 

Chris found he had four sisters, though not the same four he remembered. The two youngest at the time had died two winters ago from a bout of sickness. The ones now were Molly, Cait, Emily and Tara. The last two were seven and six, born shortly after he had left. 

Through supper, Chris spoke very little and listened instead. The heat around his eyes grew. While he had no appetite, he drank like a drunkard. Water eased his parched throat. His sisters were loud and opinionated. JC, having had practice at the Dorough household, kept up with them best he could. Molly and Cait flattered him and made him smile. They were smitten. 

"If I leave this boy with you, girls, do you promise not to ravage him?" His mother said after long last. Though she had her hand on JC’s shoulder, her eyes were on Chris. They had exchanged glances through dinner. Chris, willing her to understand; his mother, desperate to get it. Molly and Cait solemnly swore to be kind and virtuous then fought like devils to bring JC some pie. 

Outside, the air was crisp and cool. They moved to the stables. Chris had been flogged there the first time when he was only fourteen, two weeks back from St. Patrick’s church. The leather whip still hung on the wall alongside a thin belt and a wooden rod. Nothing had changed. 

"Are you hurt?" She asked. Her back to him, she lit a lamp and secured it to a post. 

"Aye," Chris said. "A shallow cut that should have healed days ago. It festers instead." 

"I will do what I can to help you," she said. "Take off your shirt and show me." 

He ached so badly she had to help him. With his knife, she cut through the bandages then gently pulled them free from his rotten skin. Air hissed through her teeth. She left him there to get what she needed. Chris dared not look around but put his head in his hands instead. Sweat dripped from his brow, and he dried it on his tattered shirt. The stable spun in dizzying circles. 

When she returned, she carried a pail of water and an armful of cloth. From her skirt, she pulled two things: a bottle of whiskey and a pot of wet bran and bread. Careful of the hay, she mixed the two and heated them over the lamp. Chris took the whiskey and drank two mouthfuls. 

"I do not know if this will work, Christopher," she said. She knelt at his side. With a damp cloth, she began to bathe the wound. It hurt more than Chris had words to say. He braced himself and swallowed whatever noise he made. "You need a real physician for this infection." 

"There are none that I could find," Chris said. He gritted it through his teeth. 

Too hard, she rubbed at the rot, but her voice was gentle as the softest wind. "Then you need to rest." 

"No time," Chris said. Thankfully, his belly was empty enough that most of the pains were false, but bile did rise in his throat, and he fought it tooth and nail. "My friend Joe will help me if I can get to him. He knows medicine. That is his daughter we carry with us." 

"So you do have friends," his mother said. Lightly, she began to spread the warm poultice over his cut. It brought him back to early manhood. Him, whimpering like a babe on the stool; she, tending the lacerations that so deeply slit his back. 

"Three," he said. He straightened his back. "Four, if you count the Scotsman. Not many." 

"Enough that you are not alone," she said. "Mothers worry about such things, Christopher, and I worried more for you. I did not know if you were dead or alive, and you come to me in such rough condition that I cannot for the life of me guess which state you are in." 

Ruefully, he tried to smile. His lips split like dry leaves. "I could not tell you." 

"You have such a glow in your eyes, though. Bright as sunshine in summer. I dare say you are happy, and that is something I thought I would never see." With her fingers, she pulled the sweat-damp hair from his neck and tucked it behind his ear. Gently, she kissed his weeping brow. He leaned to her. "Oh, my sweet boy, I have done such wrong by you. You have suffered so hard, and each time I thought to make it better, I made it worse." 

"You did what you could for me." It took all his strength to say it, though he knew it true. He had a thousand apologies to offer but not a single one would come to his mouth. "You never made me unhappy," he said instead, "and you gave me life, so I might have a chance to enjoy it." 

"And do you?" 

"Aye. I do. God help me, I do," Chris said. He raised a hand to his head and plucked the tears that blinded his eyes. It seemed to break the dam as even more flowed than before. His side ached like fire, and his head was full with dread. "Did you ever love that man you are with?" 

"He gave me six lovely daughters, four of whom have lived. They bring me all the love and joy I need in this world. And you too, when I see the man you have become." Beneath his arm, she stuffed a wad of clean cotton then wrapped it flush against his chest. "He has been as good to me as he could be. He never beat me like he did you, if that is what you are asking." 

"And the girls?" 

"Never a hand lifted." 

"Oh, thank God," Chris said. The tears streaked hotter down his cheek, though he fought it hard. His mother cradled him to her breast like he was a wee child and not a grown man. His brain was dumb from pain and fever. Chris knew he acted the madman. 

His mother brought cool water to his lips and helped him drink. His thirst knew no bounds. They talked a while about nothing important. _We are almost like strangers_ , Chris thought, then called himself a fool. There was a natural comfort between them that Chris felt with few others. It took Joe a year to earn it. JC, only a single shy glance. 

It seemed as though they spoke all night, but Chris knew it was only an hour or two. When he looked up, he saw JC in the door to the stables. How long he had stood there, Chris did not know. JC had seen him cry before. Chris felt no shame about it, though he knew he should. 

"I did not mean to interrupt," JC said. 

"No." His mother stood and brushed the hay from her skirts. Chris lay where he was and watched her face. She looked young in that moment, caught in the strange shifting light of the oil lamp. "We have said our peace, and there are girls who should be in bed. Will you be fine here?" 

"Aye," Chris said. 

They did not speak as they settled for bed. JC spread the furs over the hay then laid the blankets over top, making a single bed. Chris kicked off his boots then slipped from his breeches. Naked save for the bandage, he crawled beneath the sheet and exhaled a sharp breath. 

"Are you not full from all your drinking?" JC asked. 

If he was, Chris could not feel it through the pain. Still, better to relieve himself than soak the furs at night. As Chris struggled to stand, JC put a hand on his shoulder and laid him down again. 

"Roll to your side, and I will help you," JC whispered. Chris did as he asked, though the world spun to do it. JC took the bowl his mother had left then put a gentle hand on Chris’s cock, holding the soft length of it. "Come now," JC said when Chris still did not water, "you can do it." 

At long last, Chris felt his lower belly empty with a light tinkle. Relief spread through him followed by a deep blush that flamed his ears. Without word, JC took the pot outside and emptied it. When he returned, he undressed to his skin and lay down. His body was cool. 

"Do you still insist on lying to me?" 

"Aye," Chris said. 

JC rolled him to his back and put a hand firm on Chris’s belly. They stayed like that a moment before JC walked his fingers up the length of his body and touched the bandage. It came hard enough that Chris flinched before he could stop himself. "I am not brainless, Chris." 

"I know," Chris said, "but I do not want to worry you needlessly." 

"You have no skill at lying," JC said, "and I love you fiercely. I will worry anyway." 

"Love me fiercely, do you?" It was a tug in another direction, and they both well knew it. Chris reached for JC and pulled him close as he could. Beneath the blankets, their legs knitted together. Though Chris ached in every place he had, it seemed to lessen with JC so near. 

"Yes, I do. Christopher Alan," JC added. "You never told me you had a second name." 

"Aye. It is the one my mother bestowed on me at birth. It means handsome in Gaelic," Chris added. He hoped it would make JC smile, and it did. "Though I was never baptised, the priests named me Christopher. Bearer of Christ, or so Joe tells me. He knows these things." 

"He does," JC agreed. 

They laid a while without speaking. The horses neighed lowly from time to time, and there were cows that mooed lowly in the fields, but it was otherwise quiet. Chris sweat buckets, yet he was cold and his were teeth chattering. JC rubbed over his shoulders and his back. 

Exhaustion wove itself through his legs, and he stayed soft despite wishing otherwise. Under his hand, JC came alive as he stroked him. Chris kept his touch light as not to bring him off. Instead, he kept his ear to JC’s heart and watched his own hand. They had been lovers for only three months. It seemed too short a time for all the love that swelled in Chris’s heart. 

Chris sat up and took the blankets with him. When JC reached for him, Chris said softly, "let me look at you," and touched a hand to JC’s hip. Never a man so handsome, or a boy so beautiful. Tears sprung to Chris’s eyes and blurred his sight. _I do not want to die_ , Chris thought. 

"I love you with all my soul, JC. I would marry you if I could. I would be your husband." 

"In my heart, you are already," JC said. 

Chris said nothing. He bowed his head to JC’s chest. There, he wept as fever raced through him. _Let me live_ , he thought, _oh, God, let me live._


	53. Chapter 53

At sunrise, they set out. Chris’s mother packed them heavy with salted meat, bread, a small sack of oats and a flask of whiskey. The girls watched from the doorway, dishevelled from sleep. JC averted his eyes for modesty’s sake. Even if they had none, he had plenty. He combed through Fleur’s mane to keep himself busy as Chris bid farewell to his mother. 

She was a kind woman. Her eyes were the same strange gold that was found in Chris’s own. At night, they seemed almost black, but when the light hit them, they were amber. Once Chris was mounted, she came to him and hugged him tight. 

"You take care of my son," she said. 

Wordlessly, JC nodded. She cinched him tighter about the waist then let him go. 

Marie spent the morning weeping in his ear, wet and warm against his neck. He rocked back and forth, singing soft lullabies. By midday, his nerves were roughly frayed, but she settled soon after, her cries of "mama! mama!" fading to soft snores as she slept. She was light as a feather at first, but as time wore on, she grew heavy as a rock. His back steadily ached. 

"Will you speak to me?" Chris asked soon after JC had quieted. 

JC looked over at him. His face was ashen and gaunt; his eyes sallow in his head. A glimmering sheen of sweat covered his skin. Each time Chris dragged a hand to wipe his brow, he left behind a smudge of dirt. Alistair had thrown him once, startled when Fleur lost his footing and slid down a sharp hill. Both horse and master rode with their dark heads down. 

"Or sing," Chris said. His eyes were half-closed. "I always like to hear your voice." 

Though his throat was raw from morning, JC sang and told stories. Chris had likely heard them all before, but JC knew it was the comfort of his voice Chris sought and not the words. There were times JC’s mouth went dry, and he could not speak for the tears in his eyes. Chris wilted like a flower left too long in the sun without water. JC knew they had little time. 

Into the night, he spoke. At supper, Chris did not eat, but he drank the water JC held to his mouth. JC enticed Marie into a single piece of meat before she cried too hard to swallow. He forced her to drink the water and whiskey, holding her mouth open with his hands. He tried to be gentle, though she squirmed like a caught animal in his lap. 

They slept till sunrise then were off again. Marie was quiet but awake. She had a hand tangled in his curls, the grip too tight to be one of a sleeping babe. Chris spoke constantly, but to whom, JC did not know. Not to him, JC knew that much. At times, his voice would be loud and angry. At others, it faded almost to nothing, merely a steady and unending hum in JC’s ear. 

"You hate me," Chris said at midday. His words carried on the whistling wind. "And I hate you, more than you know. Though likely you do already, and it amuses you." His words slurred. A loose hand flopped through the air then dropped to his side. "Oh, do not give me that. You hate me!" Only then was he still and quiet. JC watched him, but he scarcely moved. 

Through afternoon, it was deathly still. Marie was hot and damp against his back, though he knew she still lived from the steady thump of her heart. Chris was drenched from hair to boot. His shirt and breeches clung to him, pulled tight across his body. His hair fell like snakes over his shoulders. 

"JC." 

JC looked over at him. Chris had his eyes on the sky. They were wetly glazed and blank. 

"I need your word," Chris said. It came slow like he struggled for thought. He knitted his mouth together and dragged a hand over his brow. Left behind was a dark smudge above his left eye. "Your word. Should this be the end of me, you will stay with Joe, and you will not follow. No, no, you do not listen to me. Listen to me, man! Listen! You stubborn fool, listen!" 

"I do," JC whispered. Tears blurred his eyes. When he blinked, they caught on his lashes and showed him stars. He thought of Orion and showing Chris the stars, filling his head with tales as Chris smiled and urged him onward. "My word, Chris. Do not worry." 

"You did what no man could and healed my heart. Made me a better man." Chris tipped forward. A hand came over his face, and he wept. "Oh, forgive me. Forgive me for hurting you. For stealing your womanhood. For making you think I hated you when I loved you." 

"I knew," JC said. "Chris, I knew." 

"Forgive me," Chris said. "Forgive me." 

It came over and over, a litany of sorrow and regret. JC listened to all of it, spoke to him, forgave him a thousand times at least. In time, Chris turned quiet. Fear crept into JC’s heart like a crawling vine. Over the rustle of the wind, JC could hear his breath. It grew shallow with each passing moment until, finally, Chris slumped with one last massive shudder and fell from his saddle. He hit like rocks upon the ground. 

With the weight of the world on his shoulders, JC dismounted and knelt at his side. He put an ear to Chris’s chest and heard the steady rhythm of his heart. Marie slipped forward on his back, and he caught her before the bindings came loose. They were so close to Joe’s. JC knew it in his heart, but the dark was settling, and he did not dare to lose the path again. 

"Wait for me," JC whispered. JC lit a fire then dragged Chris under the arms to it. His breathing was shallow and quick, and his skin burned hotter than flame itself. All night, JC stayed with him, wetting cloth and laying it over him. All night, he kept watch over Chris’s life. 

At sunrise, he heaved Chris’s body to Alistair’s back. The stallion bowed to make it easier, but Chris was heavier than JC had strength. Face wet with tears, he persisted until, finally, Chris was up. There, JC bound his hands with cloth around the elegant slope of Alistair’s neck. With a leather strap, JC tied Alistair to the rear of Fleur’s saddle. Marie sobbed at his feet. 

"Wait for me, Chris," JC said again. He kissed Chris’s burning lips then knelt, knotting Marie to his back, though she fought him. They rode, then, with the sun in their eyes, peeking out from behind grey clouds. Marie cried a lament in his ear, weeping like a motherless child.


	54. Chapter 54

Late afternoon, he finally saw it. Kelly’s house. Smoke piped from the chimney into the chill night air. JC felt himself shouting for Joe, though he barely heard it. His ears seemed deaf and useless as blood pumped through his head and fogged his brain. Marie screamed with him. 

"You will wake the dead!" Joe shouted from the doorway. Merry at first, from what JC could see, his face quickly dropped. He held up a hand, and JC stopped the horses. Marie wailed in his ear like the banshee Justin had once told him about. "Do not come any closer, JC." 

JC nodded, though his heart fell to his knees. _Even Joe cannot help_ , he thought. 

"I need you to tell me if you are ill, JC. Do you burn a fever at all? Do you have boils or blisters on any part of your body?" Joe threw his voice boldly across the distance between them. JC felt his throat tighten. Though it nearly tipped him from his horse, he shook his head. "And Marie." Joe clenched his hands at his sides. "Is she sick?" 

"No," JC said. He looked back. Her cheeks were stained with tears, and her nose was wet with bile, but her dark eyes were clear, and her skin, a healthy pink. "She is merely tired and hungry. She cries for her mama, and I cannot seem to settle her, though I have tried." 

At that, Joe rushed and helped him from his saddle. JC’s legs bowed, and Joe heaved him up again. Kelly came up behind them, her belly still round and swollen. She took Marie from his back as Joe went to tend Chris. He laid his big hands on Chris’s face and neck. 

"I will take this wee thing inside and see that she is fed," Kelly said. 

"Aye. And can you heat some water and clean my knife? I left it on the table. I will need as many strips of cloth that you can manage, and whiskey, if we have it, a pail of fresh water. A needle and thread, and a pot of bran," Joe added. He paused a moment to shake his head. Kelly was close enough to reach for, and he did. Joe pressed a kiss to Marie’s head then ushered them off with a murmur of thanks. "How long has he been sleeping?" 

"He fell last night as we rode, but he had been gone from his head since that morning. I think," JC added. He rubbed his eyes and felt his knees buckle again. Joe caught him a second time and forced him to stand. "I cannot remember for sure. Can you help him?" 

"I will do what I can for him." He pulled the knife from Chris’s waist and cut through the bindings around his wrist. Chris’s arms fell limp to Alistair’s sides. The horse stepped back but was otherwise still. Joe opened Chris’s shirt with the blade and tore it off. Blood had soaked through the bandages. Yellow seeped out from the edges like a gruesome halo. "God almighty." 

"Is it bad?" JC asked. 

"Aye," Joe’s voice caught on the word, and he cleared his throat as his back straightened, "but not so terrible that I cannot help him fight it." Joe pulled Chris into his arms and held him like he weighed no more than a babe. Chris looked tiny in his arms, small and helpless. "Come now. I managed to convert the stables to living quarters while you were gone." 

His legs led him by the toes, and JC followed. The stables had been cleared to hold a large bed, a fireplace and a table with two chairs. There was a single window, shuttered closed. 

"Take the quilt from the bed," Joe said. He shifted Chris in his arms as JC bent to pull it free. Onto the bare mattress, he laid Chris. "When Kelly comes, I need you to wet the rags and lay them over him. Help me with his breeches." Together, they stripped him naked. 

Kelly came with fresh water, streams of cloth and Joe’s clean knife, the handle clenched between her teeth. She set everything down on the table then rubbed a hand over her large belly. "I searched high and low, but you drank the last of the whiskey two days ago." 

"We have whiskey," JC said. He left before they could answer. While he could see Fleur chewing lazily at the grass, Alistair had wandered off. JC put his lips together and tried to whistle, but no sound came out. Despite it all, Alistair rounded a tree to help himself to Fleur’s grass. JC rooted through the pack and found the flask. It was nearly full. 

When he returned, Joe was kneeling over Chris, cutting away his bandages. The skin underneath was raw, dark and bloody. Joe bent his nose to it and sniffed. His face changed its look, but JC could not decipher it. Kelly left again. She touched JC’s hand as she passed. 

"JC," Joe said gently. "You can go with Kelly if you need to." 

"I want to stay," JC said. He carried the flask of whiskey to Joe. His arm shook as he held it out. Joe grabbed the whiskey before it fell. "Chris’s mother gave it to us." 

"You have had adventures, then. Aye, I thought you would." Joe smiled as he opened the flask and took a swig. JC took a mouthful when offered. "I would not worry so much about Chris. Trouble haunts him, but he gets little more than a fright from it. Blades enjoy his flesh." 

"I thought you would not help us," JC admitted. His belly twisted with guilt. 

"I merely wished to keep my family safe," Joe said. He poured the whiskey over Chris’s wound then began to poke it with careful fingers. "You came from a plague infested town, bearing a child who likely survived it. Chris sent me a note of warning, and when I saw him slumped, I feared the worst. Will you forgive me, JC, for worrying you so gravely?" 

"You were right to be wary," JC admitted. 

Joe tipped his head then lifted it again. He brought his fingers from Chris’s sides and held them up to examine. They were slick with bright blood. Joe’s eyes darkened. "I have seen more of Chris’s blood in my lifetime than I am likely to ever see of my own." 

JC knitted his own lips together. The look on Chris’s face was one of restful peace. 

"I have outlived my own child. The mother of one of my daughters has followed. I am twenty-two years old, and I had never known loss until a month ago. I forget how blessed I have been." Joe wiped his fingers clean on his breeches. He took a deep sigh then shook his head. The light came back to his eyes. "Now, make yourself useful. Cool him down best you can." 

JC wet the rags and draped them over Chris’s legs. In sleep, they twitched with each damp touch. Joe worked on the cut and cleaning it out. His mouth twisted further downwards with each swipe of the cloth. JC stared at him, dread filling his body. When Joe caught his glance, JC did not turn away. _I am a man_ , JC thought, _I can bear to know what ails my lover._

"It festers too deep for whiskey to wash it clean. I have to remove the rotted flesh lest it poisons his blood," Joe said. He wiped a hand across his glistening brow. Bright red blood streaked his skin, left by his stained fingers. "You do not wish to see this, JC. No man should see his lover carved like meat then stitched like a pair of breeches." 

"Will he feel it?" 

"No, I doubt it. He seems gone from the head so long as the fever has him. Small mercy." 

JC bowed his mouth to Chris’s hip and kissed it. He was too calm. Even in rest, Chris never stilled. The sleep that held him then was unnatural and false. _If he leaves because he thinks I am gone_ , JC thought and could not finish. He buried his face in Chris’s burning skin. 

"If he tries to go," JC said, "will you ask him to wait for me?" 

"If he tries to go, I will drag him back by the balls if I need to," Joe said. 

Tears welled in JC’s eyes, and he closed them. "May I kiss him?" 

"Aye." 

JC kissed Chris’s lips, though they were lax and dry. He kissed each of his closed eyes softly on the lid. His brow, his jaw, his neck, JC marked each of them with a gentle press of his mouth. When he looked up, Joe watched him with sad eyes and touched his face with a finger. 

JC lit the lamps before he left. When he stepped outside, air rushed down his throat and cleared his chest. It was bitterly chill already, though the sun had just begun to set. The clouds were lit bright with red and yellow and orange. JC took a moment to stand in awe of it. 

Inside, Kelly brought him dinner and talked to him, though his own tongue felt huge and silent. Brianna tugged on his breeches until he lifted her. Marie sat on Kelly’s lap, Kelly’s arm slung low around her waist to hold her on what little knee came out beneath the massive belly. Marie ate what Kelly could entice her with. Brianna finished her plate when Marie was full. 

"May I touch the babe?" JC asked. 

"Aye. She is tumbling quite a bit tonight," Kelly said. 

He hooked Brianna on his hip then walked with shaky legs to Kelly. There, he put his hand against her belly. Sure enough, the little one inside danced a great song. JC looked up at Kelly, and Kelly smiled. The skin around her eyes creased with exhaustion, but she seemed happy enough. JC felt empty in a way no man should. There was a time he wanted nothing more than to carry Chris’s child in him. 

"Will you help me put these girls to bed?" Kelly asked. 

JC dressed Brianna in her night shift as Kelly dressed Marie. Brianna chattered happily as JC combed her unruly hair, and JC smiled despite the heavy pain in his chest. Marie said nothing, but she clung to Kelly’s breast and let herself be rocked to sleep. _She will be happy here_ , JC thought as he did the same to Brianna, her body already lax and comfortable in his arms. 

Once the girls were settled, Kelly warmed milk and poured them each a cup. No sooner had it flowed down his throat when JC felt the pull of exhaustion on his eyes. There had been no rest for him so long as Chris suffered. _He suffers still_ , JC thought. Chris would be deeply scarred if no other lasting harm came to him. Marked forever by a man who shared JC’s blood. 

"You truly love him," Kelly said. JC felt his eyes lift before his head followed. "No, I know you do," Kelly added quickly. There was a tone to her voice that JC did not understand. "But you love him the same as I love Joe. Joe told me you did, but I did not know what to think of it. You must forgive me, but I have been told men such as you have unnatural tastes." 

"Are you Catholic, then?" 

Kelly laughed at that, full and hearty. A hand spread over her belly to still its jiggling. "Oh, no. Protestant, through and through. Joe and I could not be married otherwise. But as a child, you learn things about the way of the world. Chris was the first man I met who was not dumb with lust over a woman’s body. I thought he was a eunuch if you want to know the truth." 

JC lifted his brows over the edge of his cup. The warm milk trickled down his throat. 

"I thought he had no balls," Kelly explained. 

Heat rushed from his toes to the roots of his hair. JC knew his eyes were wide as moons. 

"Aye. Laugh if you want. It could be no worse than when I told this all to Joe. From all his laughing, he wet his breeches and left me worrying he had cracked a rib. There was a time when Chris’s face was as smooth as the rump of a babe, and his voice higher than mine," Kelly said. Widely, she grinned and looked sheepishly amused. "It made sense to me, at least." 

"He is no eunuch," JC said softly. Still warm with blush, he licked the milk from his lips. 

"You lie together then?" Kelly asked. She looked honestly curious. 

"Yes. Much like you told me we would when I was a girl," JC added. 

Kelly smiled into her cup. "I had never seen a girl as red as you that day. I can understand, now, why you never knew how it was done." Over the table, their eyes met. Kelly reached for his hand, and he freely gave it. "I know that girl is lost, but do you miss her at all?" 

"No," JC said. It came quick from his lips, but he knew the truth to hear it. It did not hurt as much as he thought it would. Some, but the deep ache of it seemed finally gone. "She is still in me. Forever, I know she will be. But this man I am, I am happy with him, and he with me." 

"Aye. You seem stronger, JC, surer of your place in this world. It makes me happy to see, though I miss the friend I might have had. I love you men, make no mistake, but I am lonely for my own kind, too. Most of them will not talk to a woman who spoils herself willingly. More is the pity for them, I suppose, denied the pleasure of loving a handsome man," Kelly said. 

"You can pretend with me if you need to," JC said. 

Kelly squeezed his fingers. Her dark eyes glimmered with true and honest merriment. "My thanks, JC, but I doubt that will be necessary. I like you well enough as you are. You do not chide me for speaking like a man. I fell in love with Joe for that same reason. I appreciate it." 

Over candlelight and milk, they talked a while until Kelly bid goodnight, her back and feet aching with the weight of her growing babe. Though tired to the bone, JC knew he could not sleep. Despite Joe’s warnings, he walked straight to the small cottage. Joe stood at the table, washing dark blood from his hands. In the dim light, Joe looked far older than his years. 

"Was the blade that cut him poisoned?" Joe asked. He tilted his head in JC’s direction. 

"I was not there when they cut him," JC said. In his chest, he thought he felt his heart break. "Is he dead?" 

"No," Joe said. Harshly, Joe rubbed his hands together. They looked raw and pink, but from the scrubbing or the heat, JC did not know. "There is nothing more that I or any man living can do for him. It is his choice now if he wishes to stay with us. With you. Who did this to him?" 

"My father, or my brothers, perhaps. I do not know. We found them on the way, and I could not leave well enough alone. They thought me dead, which is where they wanted me. Now, they know I am living," JC said. His eyes drifted to the bed where Chris lay. Under his arm, dark thread crossed his skin. A salve was slathered over it, creamy and light like sand. 

"You look guilty, and you should not." Joe came up behind him and put two hands on his shoulders. "Chris would die for you in a heartbeat if he had to. If you are to love him fully, you must accept this and feel no blame about it. It is just the way he is, whether you like it or not." 

"I love him," JC said. 

"For that reason alone, he will come back to you. Have no fears about it." 

JC nodded. "Can I sleep in here tonight to watch over him?" 

"Aye, though you best sleep on the ground. I do not want him moving and splitting the stitches, and I know when I share a bed with Kelly, I tie her in knots with my arms and legs. I think it best you stay with him as much you can, so he knows you are near and waiting for him." 

Joe helped make a bed on the ground with the furs and blankets from their travels. Over top it all, he laid the quilt. JC fingered the finely stitched squares of coloured cloth. There were figures embroidered on the fabric, all etched in the finest of detail. 

"Kelly made that for you," Joe said quietly. He took his own corner and thumbed the lovely needlework. "When she could not sleep due to the babe in her belly, she worked on it. She remembered you loved stories and fairytales. It was meant for your marriage bed." 

JC could only nod. Even that slight movement shook water from his eyes. Joe came around him and wrapped JC with his arms. Though he did not want to cry, JC felt he had no choice and no will to fight it. He buried his face in Joe’s shoulder and wept like a babe until sleep grabbed him, and he was gone to fitful dreams. 

In the morning, JC woke to find Joe still there, keeping watch. Joe held the bible in his hands and a prayer in his mouth. His cheeks were wet with dew, glistening in the sun of a new day. He did not notice JC was awake, and JC did not tell him. On the bed, Chris was quiet.


	55. Chapter 55

Before he woke, Chris had been fondly dreaming about childhood. The days spent outside, in sun and rain and the fog in between, roaming the cemetery like a curious and brave boy. Though he could not read the gravestones, he still called them all by name. Hours and hours spent talking to dead people, making friends the best he could. They filled him with life. 

The room he found himself in was hot and stale. A fire burned in the hearth, though he could see from the open window that it was still daylight. His eyes felt dry; his lips, even dryer. It was as though they had both been rubbed raw with hay and sand. There was pain, somewhere in his body, though he could not seem to find the source. It covered him like a blanket. 

_I fear it is all that covers me_ , Chris thought. He lay naked as the day he was born, standing stiff in the heat, save for a bandage wrapped tightly around his chest. Though it pained him, he turned to look for blankets and found Kelly there, staring at him. Her eyes shamelessly dropped to his cock. The corner of her mouth crooked. She made no move at all to cover him. She was a woman made for Joe’s own shameless sensibilities, Chris would grant her that. 

"You have decided to join us, have you?" She asked. 

"Aye," Chris said. He rasped it out. To his ears, it did not sound like his voice. "Water?" 

Under the arms, she heaved him until he sat. Her belly was full and hard against his face. Beneath the flow of skirts and the pull of skin, he could feel the babe kicking. When it was gone, he closed his eyes. The pain touched his toes then doubled back again. Kelly held a cup to his mouth. Lukewarm water trickled down his throat. It felt as cool as any pulled right from a river. 

"Could I have some clothes?" Chris asked when she had still made no move to cover him. He had wilted enough that it was no longer grossly indecent. _Still no view for a lady,_ Chris thought. With his hand, he covered his cock till Kelly tapped him lightly upside the head. 

"You men and your modesty," Kelly said. Despite her tone, she pulled a blanket over him. "You would think I have never seen a man without his clothes. I can assure you, Chris, I am no blushing virgin." She folded her hands over her swollen belly then sat, lifting her feet to a stool. "I would give you your breeches if I could, but Joe took them to town to fit you new ones." 

"Is JC with him?" 

"Aye," Kelly said. She picked up her needlework. Slowly, she began to embroider a baby blanket. It was made from fuzzy white wool. Chris wanted to bend his head to it and sleep. "Despite being men, they are both mother hens at their worst. They dared not leave your side. I made them take the girls, for the lot of them were driving me mad. The eighth month will do that to you, I fear. It makes you mean." 

Chris lolled his head about. The room spun in circles. "Have I missed the wedding?" 

"No. Four days from now, Joe and I will be wed. He wanted to postpone it by two weeks. I recommended he prop you up on a chair if it meant so much to him. Forgive me, Chris, but I would not be married with the babe about to fall from between my legs," Kelly said. 

"That child needs you to be married. I understand," Chris said. He licked at his lips and blinked his eyes. There were spots of black forming behind his eyelids. The scratch of the stool against the floor sounded in his ears before Kelly appeared over him. She held a cup to his mouth. Greedily, he drank all his belly could hold. After, she helped him slide onto his back. 

Kelly touched a hand to his brow. "You should likely try to rest, Chris." 

"Aye. I think I will," Chris said. He was already half asleep. 

When he woke again, it was as bright inside as it was out. A new day. JC and Joe sat the table, facing each other but not speaking. Joe’s quill scratched over his parchment quietly. The flutter of pages as JC turned them barely made a sound. Loudly, Chris cleared his dry throat. 

JC came into his arms lightly like a feather in the wind, but his weight was solid. Despite the ache of pain, Chris let himself be gently squeezed. His own arms cinched JC’s waist as tightly as he could manage. JC smelled of lavender oil and toasted wood. His lips tasted sweet like honey and warm like sunshine. They kissed like desperate men, clinging to each other. 

"You came back," JC whispered when they parted. He spoke it wetly into Chris’s ear. 

Chris put his hands on JC’s cheeks. "You think I would give you up so easily?" 

They kissed again, deep and fierce. 

"If you split my stitches, Kilpatrick, there will be hell to pay," Joe said. His voice was fond as he took Chris by the hair and pulled his mouth from JC’s warm and loving lips. Chris and JC shared a happy smile. "Aye. There will be time enough for kisses, when you are well and healed. I know your cock is likely aching from all your dreaming, but you have to wait." 

"It is not my cock that aches," Chris said. "What did you do to me, Joe?" 

"Cut you up then closed you again. Whatever blade touched you, it meant to do damage any way it could." Joe sat on the bed and lifted Chris’s hand to his shoulder. Gently, he touched along the bandage. Chris winced. "Aye. Too close to your heart for comfort. If it had been your hands or legs, I would have taken them, Chris." The look of Joe’s face was sombre. 

"I feel like shit," Chris said. It was the truest thing that had ever left his mouth. Every bit of him throbbed with pain. JC put fingers upon his brow, and Chris turned to him. _The bluest eyes in the world_ , Chris thought. Though even his mouth seemed to hurt, Chris smiled bigger than he had his whole life. "Kelly tells me I have not missed the wedding." 

"Through luck alone, I fear. We fought like devils over it," Joe said. 

"They did," JC said. "I took the girls for a walk, and I could still hear them shouting." 

"I hate it most that she was right," Joe admitted. "She always is, and she knows it." 

"You should know better than to think you can battle wills with a woman," Chris said. 

Joe opened his mouth, likely to wittily quip back, but he snapped it shut as a ruckus outside started. A man shouted loudly for Joe. The sound of the voice was familiar, but in his sickly haze, Chris could not place it. It was evident from the look on Joe’s face that he knew who it was. He leaned out the window and shouted, 

"You were supposed to send a messenger if you were coming!" 

"Watch how you speak to your father, Joseph! I will damn well come when I want to, though I will have you know I sent one. We found him drunk under a tree two days ago. You cannot trust these Irishmen, Joseph. They are in love with their liquor!" 

Joe’s father, then, and likely his whole family by the sound of it. "You have to get me some breeches," Chris whispered. He drew the blanket higher upon his hips and acutely felt his nakedness. It seemed when Joe’s family came calling, men went without clothes. 

Outside, one of Joe’s brothers hooted. "So where is this woman of yours, Joseph?" 

"Watch your tongue, Steven," Joe bellowed. "You will treat Kelly with respect!" 

"Aye, aye," Steven said. "So where is she? Come, brother, show us your humble home." 

Joe stomped from the room, wildly waving his hands above his head and yelling plenty. JC came with some breeches and helped him into them. Putting on his shirt nearly put Chris on his back, but he got it. JC sheathed his feet with boots then helped him stand. The room tilted. 

"You have gone pale," JC said. 

"Aye. Not used to walking. I need a moment to steady my head," Chris said. 

For a heartbeat, they rested. On the side that was not injured, JC kept an arm around his elbow and kept him upright as he walked. All of Joe’s family had come, including his brothers’s wives and their young children. There were cousins, too, and wives and husbands of cousins. Each of them wished to greet Joe personally and give all the congratulations he could carry. 

"They will split my skull with all this noise," Chris muttered. 

JC split his own face with a grin and laughed. "Joe thought they were not coming." 

Kelly came out of the house right then to a roar of happy greetings. With her eyes, she shot daggers in Joe’s direction, but he merely wrapped an arm around her back and took Marie into his arms. Brianna hid in Kelly’s skirts, her brown eyes wide with fascination. Joe’s mother swept her up into her arms and cuddled her face with kisses. It was the first meeting between them. 

"Does this make you sad?" Chris asked. 

"A little," JC said. "But I have you as my family, and Joe, too, in a way." 

"Aye." Chris smiled to himself, feeling his cheeks warm. "You do at that." 

They watched in silence as Joe made the introductions. From the dip in Kelly’s shoulders, Chris knew she was conscious of her belly and all it meant. Joe was strong enough for them both, showing her proudly and kissing her worried mouth. A smiling Brianna was passed around among the women while Marie stayed in her father’s arms, held high against his shoulder. 

When Joe caught sight of them standing there, he waved them over. Chris could only imagine he looked a fright. Sunken eyes, sallow skin, a mouth that felt as dry as dust. He walked like an injured man, bracing for pain that came with every step, yet he held his head high. 

Joe’s father offered his hand, and Chris shook it. There were no apologies given, and Chris expected none. It was enough that Joe’s father gripped his hand like he was a man who could take it and not a bastard who was forever halved by having no father to raise him. 

Later, Chris felt himself grow tired. Joe seemed to know by the look of him and sent him back. It was a favour to them both. JC grew increasingly uncomfortable with so many people milling about. Chris could tell from how he kept his eyes to his feet and let his hair fall forward. 

They moved slowly, but sooner than Chris expected, the bed was beneath his back. JC took off each boot then stripped his shirt. Gently, he put a hand on Chris’s belly and rubbed it. The door was tightly latched, but it still made Chris nervous to hear the noise rumbling outside. 

"How long was I gone?" Chris asked. He let JC hold a cup of water to his mouth. He swallowed quickly, though it still wet his chin and soaked his chest. With his lips, JC kissed away the spill. Chris put his hand in JC’s hair. There, he forced his head to lift. "Tell me, JC." 

"More than a week," JC said. "You woke two days ago, spoke with Kelly then left again." 

"Did I worry you terribly?" 

JC nodded. His eyes gleamed like stars in the sky. 

"I did not mean to," Chris said. He took JC’s hand and kissed it with his mouth. It was soft and smooth, like a woman’s touch. Even whores had hands like the soft down of a newborn lamb. "I do not remember anything beyond my mother, and that feels like a strange dream." 

"Joe says if your fever had been a dry one, you would have died long before I got you here," JC said. He chewed his own lower lip into his mouth as he rubbed a finger over Chris’s. "You worked as hard as you could to fight. I worried less knowing you raged against it." 

"There is a wedding to attend," Chris murmured, "and you know what they say about Irish weddings." 

"No man goes home alone," JC said. The slice of JC’s grin split wide across his face. He bowed his lips to Chris’s and kissed him sweetly. When he pulled back, he was still close enough that they shared each other’s breath. "Joe would not take kindly to you calling him Irish." 

"Only because he knows in his heart he is." Sleep pulled heavy on his eyes. Chris blinked to keep them open. It took all the strength he had. Softly, Chris stroked the back of JC’s head and let the curls tangle in his fingers. "Tell me. Is the scar very ugly?" 

"This one?" JC asked. As light as a summer’s breeze, he brushed his hand over Chris’s side and barely touched it. Chris nodded. "You could never be ugly nor could any piece of you. You held that faith about me once, and now I hold the same for you. Do not even think of it." 

"I am so tired," Chris said. 

"Do you want me to stay with you?" 

"If you could, I would gladly welcome it." Chris let a shiver pass through his body. At once, he felt boneless and pliant. Pain still pulsed through his body, but it was tolerable. The exhaustion helped dilute it. As did JC’s soft stroking of the skin beneath his arm. Against his will, Chris’s eyes drifted closed, and he could not find a bit of strength to fight it. "Did you find any more answers in that book of secrets?" 

"Some," JC said. His fingers danced lightly upon Chris’s flesh. "My mother has given me a history by telling me hers. Do you know my mother met my father much like we did? He spied on her in a garden as she read with her maids. She caught the blues of his eyes and fell in love." 

"Tell me more," Chris said. He yawned against the pillow. 

JC’s voice continued through the dark of Chris’s haze. His hands moved over Chris’s skin. "She came from a land across the water. Not England but further than that. I have no sense of it, but she tells me that if you cross the English cha ... chaine ..." 

"Channel," Chris murmured. 

"Yes. If you cross the English Channel, you will find the land of her birth. She came to Ireland to see the world, and she never again left it until the day she died."


	56. Chapter 56

"You handsome man," Chris said from his chair. Joe stood before a mirror, fussing with his hair. Joe turned to him and narrowed his eyes, but his eyes merrily twinkled. Chris grinned back at him. "You cannot turn back now, Lord Joseph. Once you have committed yourself, there is no undoing it. At your word, JC and I can saddle the horses and aid in your escape." 

"You are cruel, Kilpatrick," Joe said," and lest your forget, as you seem to, that you did by all accounts marry first." 

Chris laughed. Pain streaked his side, and he pressed a firm hand to it. A glass of whiskey sat at his elbow, but he was wary of it. It would turn him into a drunkard if he was not careful. Instead, he took a deep breath and wider smiled. "May you have better luck, then." 

"Aye," Joe said, laughing. He turned to Chris and held the ribbon for his throat. It was a dark purple and long enough to wrap him five times. "Can you put this damned thing on me before I go mad with frustration? I only have skill when it comes to untying them on a lady’s dress." 

"At least your father let you wear what you wished," Chris said. He stood from his chair and took the ribbon from Joe’s fingers. Joe lifted his hair as Chris slid it round the back of his neck. "You look more like the man you are and less like the man they wish you were." 

"Aye." Joe held still as Chris knotted the ribbon. "I lost the battle on this damned thing." 

"Kelly sided with your mother, did she?" 

Joe blew a stream of air from his lips. "Aye." 

JC came later, happy and smiling. The hum of excitement was loud in the air and even louder from JC’s whistling mouth. JC had tossed and turned the night before until, finally, Chris had asked if he would sleep on the floor. Gladly, JC had agreed, but Chris had called him back a heartbeat later. Weariness hung to Chris’s bones. JC was as merry as ever. 

"Is it time, then?" Joe asked. 

"Yes," JC said. Already, he had his hands on Chris’s velvet coat. Joe had bought Chris a new suit fit for a man high above Chris’s own station. Still, Chris did not mind. The fit around his shoulders was tight, and it took some work getting him into it. JC smoothed it over him. Too close to ignore, they kissed. When JC pulled back, he was smiling. "You handsome man." 

Joe chuckled. 

Outside, it was chilly but bright. From the look of the clouds, it would not rain. Joe took his place by the minister, whom Chris knew had been paid a hefty sum to agree to wed a woman so far gone with child. Chris and JC stood to the side, away from the horde of Joe’s family. Only Kelly’s mother had come, for Kelly had no other living kin in Ireland. 

Kelly’s mother led her by the arm to Joe and the minister. Her dress was pale purple, flowing in billows behind her. Ribbon of the same colour was woven throughout her hair. A band of flowers settled on the top of her head. In her hands, she held a bouquet that matched it. 

Chris watched Joe’s eyes light when he saw her. A wide smile quickly followed. Finally, Joe untwisted his hands and stood, proud and strong, a man above all others. _He will be happy with her_ , Chris thought, _and she, with him_. Chris felt a calm settle on his nerves. 

Mid-ceremony, Chris’s legs began to bow. JC took him under the arm and steadied him until the end. In front of his family and friends, Joe put his hands on Kelly’s face and kissed her. While Kelly’s mother only smiled, Joe’s family erupted into cheers. JC happily clapped. 

Joe and, by that extension, Joe’s father had spared no expense with his wedding. His mother had come with enough food to feed an army of invading Englishmen and all their Irish cotters. There was a fiddler and a minstrel for entertainment. There was enough mead, ale and whiskey to drown a village of Irishmen and any of their Scottish cousins. 

For a time, Chris watched it all from an uncomfortable chair. Even Kelly was up and dancing, albeit slowly and carefully, as Joe led her around. The mothers of the bride and groom tended to Brianna and Marie, whirling them around and making them shriek with laughter. 

"Drink some ale, Kilpatrick," Joe said, later, coming up to him and hanging over his shoulder. JC and Kelly danced in the circle. "The worst of the pain is in your head. It has been nearly two weeks. If my child-swollen wife can dance, so can you." Joe put his face close to Chris’s cheek. "You can bed your lover tonight if you give your word you will not move." 

"I should lie there and let him ravage me, then?" 

"Aye," Joe said. "If you split your stitches and ruin my wedding night, I will haunt you." 

At Joe’s urging, Chris poured a cup of ale down his throat. His eyes prickled with the taste of it. Still, the pleasant warmth that followed lifted his spirits. Chris watched as JC spun around Kelly. His face was open and merry, glistening with sweat. Joe came up behind him and stole Kelly away, dropping a river in JC’s ear. Whatever JC said in return made Joe laugh so loud that Chris heard it clear. 

"Are you having a good time?" Chris asked when JC came up to him. 

"Yes," JC said. He licked his lips and panted for breath. Chris handed him his cup and watched him drink. The line of his throat bobbed as it swallowed. Narrow rivulets ran over it. Chris’s own tongue ached with thirst to drink the water that flowed. "Joe says I am to ravage you tonight. In fact, he insists upon it." 

Chris grinned as he forced his eyes to the grass beneath his toes. "Does he?" 

"Yes." JC leaned his head. When he looked up, their mouths nearly brushed. Chris nearly stepped back but fought his legs for control. "He says that since he cannot anoint his bridal bed, you and I must make him proud. That is, if you keep still and let me do all the work." 

Chris felt a shiver curve down his spine. "You should not look at me like that." 

JC grinned. "No?" 

"Unless you wish me to strip you bare right here." 

JC’s face lit with delight, but nothing more came from his lips. He finished Chris’s cup then went for more. JC came back with two and a loaf of bread clenched between his teeth. They split it, using it to pad their bellies and stop the ale from going right to their heads. Still, Chris felt dizzy and content. The pain from his side was banished for the night. He did not miss it. 

"You should have had a wedding like this," Chris said. 

Lightly, JC shrugged, but Chris knew from the twist of his mouth he agreed. 

"I did not know we were even being wed until the end," JC said softly. They sat upon the grass, eating and drinking. From his place against a tree, JC cast a sidelong glance in Chris’s direction. "When I saw you, I was less frightened, though still terrified. I did not know why you were there. When they put our hands together, it calmed my nerves to feel something familiar. We had brushed fingers the night before, and I had touched a man for the first time." 

"I was such a daring rogue," Chris said. 

"And a terrible thief," JC added. Crumbs stuck to his lips like stars. A pink tongue slipped out and wiped them clean. "You gave me enough of a wedding, Chris, more than I expected." JC licked his lips again. "It is simply that I like ale and dancing too much." 

As the night extended, the festivities grew louder. Already, there were men asleep on the grass, passed out from hours of drinking. Joe was at the centre of it, giving speeches and praising Kelly. Though he held a cup in his hand, Chris thought he was only drunk in the slightest. When Joe started hollering for the company of his "best Irishmen," Chris and JC went to him. 

"I have decided," Joe announced with great solemnity, laying one arm across Chris’s shoulders and the other across JC’s, "that we must give these kind guests a show. As thanks, from my lady and I," Joe added, "for all the wedding coin they have dropped into our pocket." 

Chris sighed as Joe went into a rambling diatribe about his life in the wilds of Ireland, living from day to day on skill and talent alone. Conveniently, Joe left out the fact they had done much of it at his father’s expense, but his ways with words stirred the crowd and Chris himself. Chris felt only a lingering resentment when the daft Englishman cast him as the woman. 

"Joe," Chris said. 

"You have a voice as sweet as any woman’s, Chris, though not a face as pretty." 

At that pronouncement, Joe pinched his cheeks raw. Behind him, Chris could hear JC laughing. It was JC who put the flower in his hair and made him sit on the stool shoved at them. Joe, as he often did, anointed himself narrator and hero, while JC took the role of the doomed rascal, who beds the hero’s wife and dies for his efforts. The lady, Chris noted, also died. 

"To my wife, for whom I have never performed my duties," Joe paused and a glint of mischief flickered in his eyes, "as an actor and a bard." 

Uproarious laughter floated from the crowd. Widely, Joe bowed. 

"Joe, you best get on with it, or you will be sleeping with the horses tonight," Kelly said, laughing. Proudly, her hand moved over the arc of her belly. Her eyes glowed with happiness. Joe bowed to her then took her hand and kissed it. "Aye, you rogue. You are forgiven." 

The fiddler started up his light and lively tune. At the sound, Joe sobered and began to sing. It was a treat to watch him, if all the women who had fallen into bed with him due to it were any indication. Like they had in days of yore, they had no script nor any idea of what the other would do. They each knew the words and when to say them. Chris took his cue from Joe. 

JC and Joe battled with swords made from sticks. Joe was the far better swordsman, but JC moved with all the elegance of a bird’s wing. Their spar was brief until, with a dramatic slump of his body, JC fell to the grass. Wide-mouthed, he was laughing. His hand held his belly. 

To the cheers and jeers of the crowd, Chris found himself off the stool and into Joe’s arms. There was a snap of pain across his eyes, but it faded quickly. Joe sat Chris on his knee, and they sang the final verses of the song. At the end, Joe poked Chris in the chest with his stick. Chris found himself laughing as he slumped in Joe’s arms then settled on the grass. 

"And that, my friends, is how it is done," Joe said. He bowed again. 

The party shifted towards Joe’s brothers, who were never to be outdone by the youngest. Beside him, JC was still laughing, but he made no move to follow the crowd. When JC looked over, Chris nearly kissed his mouth. He moved for it, parted his lips and wet them with his tongue. His heart thudded like a hammer. It came hard enough to knock him from his dream. 

"You make a lovely woman," JC said. With quick fingers, he plucked the flower from Chris’s hair. He twirled it in his grip then let the wind take it. It danced away into the dark. 

They lay awhile without speaking. Under the cover of shadows, Chris reached for JC’s hand. The skin on his knuckles was soft and smooth. With a thumb, Chris stroked over the bumps. When those were fully explored, he mapped each arc of JC’s fingers. JC turned over his palm and offered it. Chris fit his hand into the touch. At once, he felt both daring and wanton. 

Later, they pulled themselves from the plush grass. Joe stood at the centre of his family, singing with all his heart about poor Tam Lin. His favourite tune, Chris knew, as he watched Joe move before the crowd. Kelly sat before him. When he crouched at her knees, she put her hands on his face. The meeting of their eyes lifted Chris’s heart to his throat. 

Chris had no doubt that Joe loved Kelly with every bit of himself. Joe, the man who loved a hundred women yet always came back to this one. In days past, Chris used to look upon them with envy. Now, he understood the spirit that moved Joe to love so hard. 

When the song was finished, Joe walked over to them. Kelly came with him. Their hands were linked between them, fingers tightly tangled. They made it only two steps before they kissed. Joe rumbled secrets in her ear, and she laughed against his throat. 

"Joe," Chris said as he came near. His voice caught on the word. He coughed to clear it. 

"Aye," Joe replied. He stepped to Chris and wrapped his arms around Chris’s chest. It ached at once, but Chris merely tightened his own grip. Chris opened his ears for whatever more Joe would say, but there was nothing offered but the steady pulse of Joe’s warm breath. He smelled pleasantly of ale. In time, Joe let go and moved his embrace to JC, who squeaked in it. 

"You are the dearest friends a man could have," Joe said. He leaned on Kelly, putting his hand to his damp brow. Kelly rolled her eyes but lent her shoulder. Her look was one of fond bemusement. "I love you both." At that, Joe crumpled to his knees and fell over into the grass. 

Kelly poked him with the toe of her slipper. 

"Is he dead?" JC asked. 

"He will wish he is come morning," Kelly said. 

Joe’s brothers carried Joe to the cottage then dropped him in bed. Quickly, they left to return to the merrymaking. Kelly stripped Joe of his clothes then pulled the blankets around him. Joe mumbled in his sleep but did not wake. They left Kelly combing her fingers through Joe’s dark hair, calling him names as he slumbered. 

"Poor Joe," JC said when they came into their own small cottage. JC latched the door behind him, ensuring no drunkards would gain access. Outside, the celebrations still raged. Chris held his breath as JC came up behind him and put a chin over his shoulder. With shaky hands, Chris lit the lamps as JC moved his touch across Chris’s belly. 

Chris wet his lips. He needed more ale to dampen his tongue. "May I help you?" 

JC smiled against Chris’s neck. "No." 

By the hips, JC led Chris to bed. Once down, he took off Chris’s clothes then folded them neatly over a rickety chair. _No doubt made by Joe’s hand_ , Chris thought. Naked save for the bandage around him, Chris waited. His belly lifted and fell with each laboured breath. 

"The trouble is that I wish to ravish you, but I know I cannot. Not the way I need to." JC unlaced the front of his shirt and pulled the ribbon from its holes. The line of his chest peeked out from beneath the edges, slightly dark with a brush of hair. He tugged on the edge of it, and it fell around his shoulders. "So I will do the best I can to celebrate Joe’s wedding night." 

"If you split my stitches, he will likely take a knife to your balls." 

JC smiled as he pulled his arms from his shirt. It drifted down from his waist to his feet, where he bent to catch it and drape it over the chair. JC came close enough to the light that it gleamed across his skin and caught the shadows at the small of his back. 

"Oh, but you are handsome," Chris said. It came out low and throaty, edged with desire. 

"You have not seen enough men," JC replied. 

JC’s laugh was merry and light as he slowly turned. One hand stayed spread on the tabletop. Chris swallowed and watched as JC’s hips began to sway in time with the song outside. Chris could hear a woman singing a sweet and lifting tune. Her voice could not reach the beauty that JC’s own possessed. _He has ruined me for all others, in all ways_ , Chris thought. 

"Your eyes undress me," JC said. 

Chris swallowed. "Will your hands do the same?" 

Coyly, JC smiled. He tucked a thumb into the waist of his breeches and pulled it down. A teasing sliver of hip revealed itself for one brief moment. Instead, JC ran his fingers up the centre of his chest. With a touch, he brought one nipple to hardness then the other. Chris felt his own tighten at the sight. Between his legs, Chris was already stiff as a pole. 

"You did not bed me on our wedding night," JC said. He came to stand at the end of the bed. One hand worked at the laces on his breeches. Loosened, they split open and his cock peeked out from beneath the edge. With his fingers, JC traced the length of it. Chris watched his hand with rapt eyes. "You could have. I would have done anything you wished me to." 

"You were too innocent," Chris murmured. "You still are." 

JC climbed over the end and knelt over Chris’s knees. He ran his hands up Chris’s thighs then back again. In its wake, his touch left the hair ruffled and wild. "Am I?" JC bent his mouth to Chris’s belly and licked across it. "An innocent man would turn and leave you here, scared by your manhood." JC gripped it in his fist. "This is very terrifying to a virgin as you must know." 

"Gladly, you are not one of those," Chris murmured. His hips lifted against his will. JC laid an arm across them and held them down. He put his mouth on Chris’s cock and kissed it. Chris’s lips felt parched to cinders. "I do not think there is a bit of you left untouched." 

"As you like it," JC said. 

JC’s tongue mapped the way to Chris’s mouth. There, they kissed, deep and full, until Chris’s chest ached for breath. Chris put his hands on JC’s face. His eyes were pale and open. Beautiful as they always were. Chris loved him more in that moment than he had ever loved him before. Chris knew how close he had come to losing his life and with it, the truest happiness he had ever known. Chris kissed him until they were both breathless. 

JC shifted so they were side by side in the wide bed. Chris could hear only the gasp of JC’s breath and the thump of his own heart. They kissed again and kept at it. Only once, they paused as JC laid a hand on him and said, "keep still, lest you split your stitches. Let me touch." 

And JC did. His hand worked between Chris’s legs, stroking him. JC’s own cock pressed at Chris’s hip. It slid over damp skin in time with the dance of JC’s hand. Whenever Chris moved too much, JC stopped them and forced them both still. Each time, Chris’s eyes rolled in his head, and he swore. Each time, JC started again, moving over him, bringing him pleasure. 

"There is a part of you still virgin," JC whispered. His mouth touched Chris’s ear, and he licked at the lobe. Between Chris’s legs, his fingers touched that secret space behind his balls. Chris froze and held fast his breath. JC smiled against his cheek. "I will ask for this soon." 

"I will not refuse you," Chris said. 

"Soon then, but not tonight." 

JC fitted his mouth over Chris’s again. Into his lips, JC breathed, and Chris swallowed it all. Their mouths together, JC brought him off with four quick tugs of his hand. Chris felt his seed spill onto his belly into a warm and wet pool. JC came off a moment later and added to it. 

After, JC curled against him under the blankets. The cottage cooled rapidly as the night expanded over them and swallowed the outside until all the world slept. The scent of them and their lovemaking still lingered. Chris inhaled it like a breath of the freshest air. 

"That was a true Irish wedding," JC said. 

"Aye," Chris said. He smiled into the darkness. "It was at that."


	57. Chapter 57

After the wedding and the departure of Joe’s family, the days seemed to settle. Joe was busy with his daughters and Kelly, whom Joe would allow little time spent on her feet. It seemed a private time for them, and JC left them to it. They were building a family. It seemed a complicated process. Working Marie into it kept Joe and Kelly up at night, hushing her cries for "mama." It often broke through his dreams, and JC would listen until she was settled again. With each day, it slightly lessened. Joe gave her so much love. In time, Marie would fit. 

Chris slept more than he lived. It was difficult to wake him, which JC had worried about until Joe assured him it was likely that he was catching up on years of sleep missed. The only time he came to wakefulness quickly was when JC left the cottage. JC spent much of his time reading by sunlight and, as night settled, by candlelight. 

Recently, the book had roused his blood to a boil each time he opened it. His ire was directed at his father and not, he realised with great relief, his mother. Still, she infuriated him with her willingness to love such a terrible man. She had loved him. Over and over again, she said so in the yellowed pages. The man she spoke of was a man that JC did not know. 

One night, he curled his fingers into a fist and hit the wall with all his might. Chris woke with a start. He was on his feet before JC could offer apologies and urge him back to bed. Chris came to sit with him. Gently, he took JC’s injured hand and stroked his red knuckles. 

"Trouble with your book?" Chris asked. Inside the room, the fire was slowly fading to embers. Chris’s skin held that same warmth to it, and JC leaned into him. Chris circled his waist with his arms. His face pressed against JC’s neck with the question. "JC?" 

"It makes me feel terrible," JC said. With his fingers, he touched the wrinkled edges of the pages. He closed it and pushed it away. He would have thrown it, but Chris grabbed his wrist and firmly held it. "I thought it would make it better, but it has only made it worse." 

Chris tightened his arms. "What pains you so deeply?" 

JC whistled air through his lips then reached for the book. He flipped through the flimsy pages until he found the one he had left. Quietly, he read from it. JC followed each line with his finger. Chris’s breath steadily pulsed in his ear. When he was done, he closed it again. 

"She wishes me to forgive him," JC said. His eyes stayed on the dancing flicker of the flame. When he swallowed, his throat seemed huge and unyielding. "And I cannot. I will not. He is still out there, and he wishes me dead. I have done nothing to wrong him intentionally." 

Chris rubbed a thumb over his knuckles. 

"It feels as though there are two men. Her husband and my father. They must be the same. In my head, I know they are. But I." JC tilted his head into Chris’s shoulder. A hand came up and slipped into his hair. "She wishes something so simple, and I cannot give it." 

"You have no obligation." 

"She is my mother," JC said. 

"And you are a grown man." 

"I am," JC agreed, then added, "mostly." At times, JC still felt like a young child. 

"You can grow a beard, and you can satisfy a lover," Chris said as if it was that simple. From the look of him, he believed it. JC pinched his lips together then kissed Chris on his. They were soft and not nearly as dry as they had been. Daily, he was getting better. Joe said the stitches were nearly ready to come out. "You can also support yourself with your skills." 

"I have a woman’s skills," JC said. 

"Perhaps, but you are also a bard, through and through. Never have I come across any man, not even Joe, who can not only tell the stories of others but also make up his own and do it just as well. In fact," Chris touched a finger to JC’s lips then dragged it down his throat, "when I am old and useless, I expect you to support me." 

JC smiled. He rubbed his thumbs over Chris’s smooth cheeks. "Do you?" 

"Aye. Now, put that book away and come to bed with me. I am feeling much better," Chris said. He lifted his eyebrows as if trying to insinuate something grossly indecent while his hand did just that. It settled between JC’s legs, firm and knowing in its touch. JC’s breath hitched on a shiver as Chris opened his breeches and slid in his determined fingers. It had been some time since Joe’s wedding night, and they had not lain together since. 

Chris woke him the next morning with kisses, on his mouth as well as his manhood. It had been the first morning in some time that JC had not dreaded opening his eyes. They stayed in bed as long as they could, loving each other. Hunger pulled them from the sheets. When JC looked at the table, it was empty. The book was gone, though JC had no memory of moving it. When he opened his mouth to ask, Chris merely took his hand and said, 

"You need a break from it. Just a day or two." 

The break, Chris informed him, was to help Joe build new stables for the horses. Nothing complicated, JC was assured, only a simple shelter to protect them from the miserable winter weather. Joe predicted that snow would fall aplenty in the coming months. Joseph the Third, Joe had said at dinner the night previous, did not particularly like snow. 

"You cannot mean for me to do this on my own," JC said when Chris gave him the hammer. It was heavy in his hand, and he nearly dropped it. In the distance, Joe walked back and forth with Marie in his arms. Her cries carried on the wind as loud as if she was near. 

"I cannot do it. I can hardly lift my cock to empty my belly," Chris said. JC knew it was not wholly true, but he understood the gist of it. If Joe caught Chris lifting heavy lengths of wood, there would be much yelling and calling of names. Quite likely at them both. "You will be fine. I will sit here and instruct you. Your skills, then, will include stable building." 

The wood was already prepared, cut to the proper lengths. Joe had likely paid someone to get it for him, for he still had all his fingers and both his eyes, which Chris took to mean another man had done it. Chris said it loudly, probably hoping Joe would hear, but he was still tending to Marie. At Chris’s urging, JC began to work on the stables. Chris guided him as best he could. 

"You cannot do that," he said at times. At others, he said, "no! Not like that. Like this," then explained what he meant, which was never what he said in the first place. By lunch, JC was on the cusp of lunacy. Chris’s teasing, though, garnered quick forgiveness on his behalf. Still, Chris continued through the afternoon until JC finally tossed down his hammer. 

"You," JC said, "are driving me mad." 

Chris looked at him with all the innocence of a scoundrel. 

"You natter like a woman, Kilpatrick," Joe said, coming up to them. They were sitting on stools in the half-finished stables. Marie was still crying in his arms, though she had slightly settled. Her eyes were red and her nose dripped buckets. "I could hear you from over there. When you can overwhelm the noise of a miserable child, you know you have gone too far with it." 

"I think only of the horses," Chris said. 

JC snorted. A rueful smile twisted his lips. It stretched into happiness when Chris turned to him and grinned. Against his will, JC let himself be tugged close. Chris’s hand hovered on his hip for only a second before it vanished. Still, they stood arm to arm. Their fingers brushed. 

"Are you torturing her, Joe?" Chris asked. 

"She likely thinks I am," Joe said. He smoothed a hand over her unruly hair and tried to settle her, but she still softly wept. With each cry, Joe’s brow seemed to dip lower, but he still cradled her in his arms and rocked her. "I have stolen her mother, and I cannot give her back." 

"May I hold her?" JC’s arms were already reaching. Marie’s misery made his belly ache. 

"Aye," Joe said. Still, his hand lingered on her head even when she was in JC’s arms. To look at the daughter was to look at the father. They were so much alike. Even Brianna did not bear such a strong resemblance. "I can only hope in time the hurt lessens. Will it, do you think?" 

"Aye," Chris said. "She is young. She will forget her mother’s face." 

Joe took his fingers from Marie’s brow. In his lap, he wrung his hands. "You did not." 

Chris put his hand on Joe’s shoulder and said nothing else. 

JC sang into Marie’s ear. Softly at first then it bloomed into the song she had liked best when they rode. It was the only one that would soothe her when her spirit raged like a storm. In time, her cries softened to wet sighs. She put a thumb into her mouth and watched his face with wide, dark eyes. Though his own was more than a year old, JC understood her pain. Marie had lost her mother. In the world, she had known no one else. Keenly, JC understood that, too. 

When he looked up, both Joe and Chris were watching. Chris’s face was serene while Joe’s looked surprised. JC moved to return Marie to her father, but he held up a hand. By now, Chris had turned to Joe. The question JC wanted to ask was clear on Chris’s face as well. 

"Comprends-tu les mots que tu chantes?" Joe asked. 

_He speaks the secret language_ , JC thought. At once, JC’s world tilted sideways. His heart lifted in his chest. Joe waited on an answer, so JC nodded. He did understand the words. 

"Connais-tu ça assez bien pour parler?" 

JC swallowed. Again, he nodded. He could speak it if he tried, but the thought felt like a betrayal of his mother’s trust. She had sworn him to secrecy, to hold his tongue and never betray it. JC had given his word that he would never speak it to anyone else but her. His belly twisted. 

"Alors la fais," Joe urged. 

Still, JC hesitated. The words were jailed inside his mouth. 

"Are you speaking Gaelic?" Chris looked between them, his eyes wide with interest. 

Joe tapped a finger on Chris’s forehead. "You have not a brain in your head, do you?" 

They bickered like hens until, finally, JC mumbled, "my mother said it was a secret language, and I was not to speak it to anyone else. I only broke my word to calm Marie. I forgot to watch my tongue." He felt embarrassment spread over his skin, though he did not understand why. Tighter still, JC held Marie to his chest as if she could shield him from their looks. 

"A secret language?" Joe repeated. If his mouth twisted in amusement, JC could not see it. He kept his eyes ahead, though they fogged over and took his sight. "You speak French. That is no secret." Joe paused then gently he asked, "was your mother French, JC?" 

"She came from a land across the English Channel," he said. 

"France?" 

"I did not recognise the word to see it." 

Slowly, Joe spelled it out, giving each letter clearly. It perfectly matched the word in JC’s head. He remembered reading it, though it had made little sense to him at the time. At once, JC knew he was a fool for not connecting it to the place his mother was born. He kept his head down. 

"Danielle was French, too," Joe said. His voice was soft like the lightest breeze. Beside him, JC could hear Chris moving his weight from foot to foot. "It is likely Marie also speaks it. I should have realised it would calm her. Ach. I am the daftest of all. Some father I am." 

Joe and Chris exchanged words, then. Low and heated, JC heard nothing but the rumble of them. Without a word, Joe took Marie from JC’s arms. She did not wake from sleep. Joe left them alone. Chris returned to his seat. When he offered a hand, JC took it. 

"I cannot escape it," JC said. "Even on a day of rest, I am haunted by that book." 

"If I could somehow make it better, I would." 

"I know." JC squeezed Chris’s hand tightly. After nearly a week of holding a hand that did not hold back, JC still felt only relief when Chris’s fingers tightened in return. "It is the work between that troubles me." With the toe of his boot, JC kicked at the dirt. It helped lure the sting of frustration from his skin. "I want to know, but I do not want to learn it." 

A smile touched Chris’s mouth. "More men than you have complained of the same." 

"I feel so stupid," JC confessed. 

"At least you have Joe’s sympathy. I fear he will mock me for thinking it Gaelic for the rest of my days." Chris folded his other hand over the one JC held. "And you are not stupid. Uneducated, aye. Of course you are. You were never taught a thing. How else does a man learn?" 

"I would not know," JC said. He felt sour and wished Chris to suffer with him. These days it seemed impossible to darken Chris’s mood with empathy. Again, JC kicked at the dirt. Chris took his hand from JC’s fingers and folded it over his knee. JC heaved a large sigh. 

"We should never have taught you to complain." Chris’s voice was fond as JC laid his head upon Chris’s shoulder. "You do it too well." 

"It is your own fault for showing me how badly I had been wronged in life," JC said. He tried to force his voice into lightness, but it was weighted down regardless. Chris tightened his hold on JC’s knee. "I did not understand that I was mistreated. I knew, on some level, but I blamed myself. I thought it natural that I was kept up like an animal. I thought I deserved it." 

"You knew only what you were told." 

"My mother should have told me different," JC said. 

"Would it have made it better if you had known?" 

"You knew," JC said. 

"Aye. But I wish to God someone had thought to spare me." 

JC exhaled a sharp breath. He missed the days when Chris had been unyielding to reason. It was hard to believe that the same man who walked around waiting to be smitten by God sat before him, talking him to reason. _I have changed him just as he has changed me_ , JC thought. 

"Do you want to work again on the stables?" Chris asked. There was a teasing tone to his voice. Though he fought it, JC allowed himself to smile. JC knew Chris sought to rouse his spirits and allay his mind. While wallowing seemed much easier, it did not at all suit him. 

JC slapped him on the thigh. "No. Not with you leading me. Perhaps with Joe." 

"That man has the patience of a saint," Chris agreed. 

"Supper is a ways off," JC said. He traced a finger over the same thigh he had slapped. 

"Aye." 

"My muscles are weary from all the work you made me do on your behalf. I think you owe me," JC said. He bumped Chris with his shoulder then grinned when Chris’s nose wrinkled. "I ask very little of you. Your hands on me. Perhaps your mouth, if you would grant it." 

"If you wish," Chris said. "Though I ask for something in return." 

"If I can give it, I will." 

"Speak to me in your secret language." Merrily, Chris’s eyes shone. The slice of his smile widened across his face. JC mirrored it, helpless to the glint of happiness on Chris’s face. Chris lowered his voice as if telling a secret. "I have never been to bed with a Frenchman." 

"You have never been to bed with any man, save me," JC replied. 

"I want you to be proud of the things you can do." Chris put a hand to JC’s face. "Please speak to me." 

JC swallowed the rising in his belly then nodded. The words came quick like they had been waiting in his heart for all this time. "Je t'aime. Plus que moi devrais toutefois pas assez pour assouvir mon avidité. Tu me soulèves quand je trébuche. Tu me tires quand je combat chaque pas. Tu es revenus à moi de la mort comme j'ai fait pour tu. Tu m'as enseigné à être un homme le même que je vous ai enseignés. Tu es beau, Chris, à l'intérieur et dehors." 

JC meant every word of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Comprends-tu les mots que tu chantes?_  
>  "Do you understand the words you sing?"
> 
>  
> 
> _Connais-tu ça assez bien pour parler?_  
>  "Do you know it well enough to speak?"
> 
>  
> 
> _Alors la fais._  
>  "Then do it."
> 
>  
> 
> _Je t'aime. Plus que moi devrais toutefois pas assez pour assouvir mon avidité. Tu me soulèves quand je trébuche. Tu me tires quand je combat chaque pas. Tu es revenus à moi de la mort comme j'ai fait pour tu. Tu m'as enseigné à être un homme le même que je vous ai enseignés. Tu es beau, Chris, à l'intérieur et dehors._  
>  "I love you. More than I should, but not enough to appease my greed. You lift me when I stumble. You drag me when I fight each step. You returned to me from death as I did for you. You taught me to be a man the same as I taught you. You are beautiful, Chris, inside and out."


	58. Chapter 58

JC finished the stables on his own. There was wood aplenty left over when it was done. It took him three days, but when the last of it had been hammered and set, he knew it was worth his effort. A storm would likely knock it to the ground, but it stood without help. Already, Joseph the Third was under it. Cold rain drizzled from the grey expanse of the sky. 

Bareback, JC took Fleur for a jaunt on the roads that led to and from Kelly’s house. _Joe’s house, too_ , JC thought, though soon enough they would move west to live near Lance and Justin. They would likely sell it, Joe said. Kelly’s mother, who lived in town, would come with them. The invitation to join them still lingered. Neither JC nor Chris had made a decision. 

_Fleur. Flower._ Joe had thoroughly tested him on his ability to speak French. It had lasted a day before both Kelly and Chris demanded they speak English or not speak at all. Still, when JC went to bed with Chris, he would speak it to him. It roused Chris in ways that JC did not think possible. His hips would lift to JC’s hand; his legs would wantonly spread. 

JC touched his lips. Inside his breeches, he was stiff like wood. Though Joe had still not removed Chris’s stitches, he had been deemed well enough to thrust if he wished. And he did wish. JC felt thoroughly ravaged yet left wanting despite it. Desire was still so new to him. 

Fleur was in a happy mood. Merrily, he neighed as JC hummed a tune, his tail swishing from side to side. Poor Alistair still had only half of one, much to Chris’s dismay, for Joe teased both horse and master mercilessly. Alistair looked less like an Irish pony than he did the decorated show horse of a wealthy Englishman with his newly trimmed tail. 

JC returned to the house and put Fleur into the stables. To each horse, he gave more hay than they could eat. He watered them then brushed them. Kelly’s gelding, rightly named Dolan for his black hair, nipped affectionately at JC’s curls. Dolan was older than even Fleur. 

Whistling, JC walked on light feet to check on Kelly, who had ushered Joe and the girls from the house. She had a poem nearly finished. Chris had left with them. Christmas was nearly upon them. JC had given Joe a list of items he wished to give Chris. It would be the first year that JC would be allowed to celebrate. Before, he had always spent it with his only gift, a new veil from his mother, and a cold plate of leftover food. When the others slept, his mother would sing. 

Kelly was at the table when he entered the house. "Will you ride to town and get my mother?" She asked, though her back was to him. Tension straightened her shoulders. One hand was on her belly. The other, clutching the table edge. "Tell her my daughter is eager to arrive." 

"The babe is coming?" JC asked. 

"Aye." Kelly heaved a sharp breath and closed her eyes. On the floor, she stamped a foot. When the discomfort passed, her eyes opened. With a cloth, she wiped her brow. "Not for a good many hours, I would guess, but no doubt by morning. If you see Joe, send him along." 

In the drizzling rain, JC rode to town. Fleur kicked up a cloud of mud in their trail. By the time he saw the walls, they were both black to the knees. Kelly’s mother lived with another widowed woman. On the way, JC crossed paths with Chris and Joe, who held each girl by the hand as they toddled. Both of them sucked on a sweet. In his arms, Chris held their dolls. 

"The babe is coming!" JC said. Excitement hitched his breath and warmed his skin. 

"So soon?" Joe paled. "Are you sure? She assured me we still had a week or two to wait." 

"Kelly said so herself. She told me to send you along if I found you." Fleur danced in place, chittering and neighing. He stamped his foot thrice before JC stilled him. "You best hurry on. I am off to get her mother," JC explained. A smile broke his face. "I like your dolls, Chris." 

Chris laughed and smacked Fleur’s rump, which sent him walking. 

When JC saw the house, he dismounted and rapped upon the door. In short time, it opened, and Kelly’s mother looked at him. Her hair had fallen loose from its fixing. JC opened his mouth to speak, but she turned on her heel and jumped up the stairs two at a time. When she returned, her hands were full with two leather packs. 

"Kelly says her daughter is eager to arrive," JC said. His last word trailed off. He had meant to call Kelly’s mother by name, but she had none as far as JC knew. The look of his face likely betrayed his trouble since she laughed and said, 

"Call me Kathleen." Lightly, she tapped his cheek. "Come now. I have a granddaughter to guide into this world and a daughter who needs a woman’s hand just as much." 

As quick as a streak of lightning, they rode back. Up above, the rain still came down, but it was heavier than the mist of the early afternoon. By the time they reached the house, it was downright pouring. JC put the horses to stable then came inside for warmth and shelter. 

Joe and Chris sat by the fire, each with a girl on his lap. Already, a bottle of whiskey was open and poured into two cups. A third waited on the table. It was empty. Ignoring it, JC set to making supper. Boiled potatoes and curds with a side of fresh bread. He unwrapped a loaf that Kelly had baked the day before from its handkerchief. As they sat to eat, Kelly came from her room. Across the floor, she walked with her mother’s hand on her arm. She spurned Joe’s aid. 

"You leave me be, Joseph," she warned. As she said it, her face tightened with another burst of discomfort. Kathleen talked her through it and kept her standing. They strolled around the edges of the house. From time to time, Kelly would hiss a breath, but she did not sit. 

"You really should be lying down," Joe said. 

"Aye, and what do you know of it?" Kelly’s voice was calm and steady. 

Joe pinched his lips into a line. "Nothing," he muttered. 

"Aye. Nothing. You best remember that." Kelly eyed the table as she rubbed a hand over her swollen belly. "I would give my left arm for a drink of whiskey and a piece of that bread. If you eat it all, I swear I will never cook for the lot of you again. And I will leave you," she poked Joe square in the chest, "for a Scotsman." 

"Watch your tongue, woman," Joe said. "You speak evil." 

Kelly kissed the top of Joe’s head. With her hand, she pulled the hair from Joe’s brow and pressed a second kiss to the wrinkle of his skin. 

As the day passed into night, they waited. Having stolen her from Chris, JC kept Brianna on his lap as Joe held Marie. Kelly would emerge at times to walk, but she rarely stayed long. Through the walls, JC could hear mother and daughter quietly speaking. It seemed a private and intimate time for them. Joe drank and ate then drank more. His knuckles were white. 

Brianna fell asleep soon enough. JC changed her into her nightdress then put her to bed. On Joe’s lap, Marie fussed. Her face was locked in a sullen, watery-eyed pout. Joe swayed to and fro in his seat. His voice was low as he talked with Chris. JC knew it soothed his nerves. 

"You will have a son by daybreak," Chris said. He tipped his cup to Joe. 

"Chris, I swear to you, there are no sons to be had. Kelly would not allow it, for one. For two, my seed wants daughters as it has already proven." Joe took a handkerchief and wiped Marie’s face. She wrinkled her nose and squirmed in his hold. A crooked smile on his lips, Joe kissed the crown of her head. "Silence, ma petite. Rendez ton papa heureux et va dormir." 

JC smiled as Marie blinked, a thumb stuck between her teeth as she sucked on it. 

"You should give her some of that whiskey," Chris said. 

"I will not make a drunkard of my daughter." Joe bounced Marie on his knees as she once more began to sniffle. In her small hands, she clutched her doll to her breast. Joe put his mouth to her ear and whispered, "Marie, si tu m'aimes, tu fermeras tes yeux." 

"Your loss then." Chris drank from his cup. When he lowered it, his lips were wet. A pink tongue slipped out to lick at them. It was at that moment JC walked his toe into the table leg. Tears prickled his eyes. There was whiskey in JC’s hand before he asked. Chris grinned. 

In time, sleep claimed Marie for the night. Joe carried her to bed and tucked her in beside her younger sister. They were dressed in identical nightgowns. Each girl wore a white cap on her head. Dark curls escaped from beneath and framed each face. Joe’s hand lingered on them. 

Chris and Joe played a game of backgammon as they waited. When offered a roll of the dice, JC declined. He was happy just to watch them. From time to time, Kathleen came out of the room for fresh water. With the door open, JC could see Kelly on her bed. Warmly, he smiled at her. She lifted her hand and waved him in. Pardoning himself, JC went to her side. 

"How are you?" JC asked. Seated upon a chair, he took her hand and held it. 

"Tired," Kelly said. "This babe is going as slow as she pleases. Like her Da already." 

JC laughed. Wild lengths of damp hair escaped her braid, and JC brushed them from her brow. 

"Is it painful?" 

"Aye, though not too bad yet. When I want to tear the cock from Joe’s body with my teeth, then I know the babe is fast on her way. Oh, but it hurts then. I will be happy when she is here in my arms." Kelly smiled then yawned behind her hand. "My girls like the nighttime. Brianna came at sunrise after I laboured for a day. I thought I was dying from midnight onward." 

"May I ask something?" 

Kelly nodded. 

"Where does the babe come out?" 

"The same way it came in. Between my legs," Kelly said. 

"I thought so," JC admitted. It made him a little squeamish to imagine something so big in what he guessed was likely very small. Chris’s manhood, while JC enjoyed it very much, stretched him in ways that, at times, caused discomfort. Dwelling on it, JC felt faint. "Will it fit?" 

"Aye. Women are made to bear children and deliver them, whether we like it or not." Kelly licked her lips. They looked dry, split in places where she had chewed at them. "You men have it easy. Plant the seed and wait for it to grow. Takes the fun right out of fucking, I can tell you that." Only when JC’s eyes widened to the size of saucers did Kelly laugh. 

"The tongue on you. For shame, woman," Joe said. He leaned in the doorway. Across his chest, his arms sat. He moved only a breadth when Kathleen pushed past him and elbowed his belly. "Like mother like daughter, I fear. My girls will be heathens or, worse, Scottish." 

"Aye. You puzzled me out, Joe. The blacksmith who shod my horse is the father of these girls and not you. Your mind is too pure, and your body, too chaste. What a saintly man I have wed." Kelly laughed as she said it. Her mouth stayed open as if to speak more, but instead of words, a grunt of pain bled out. At once, Kathleen was at her side. 

"Breathe through it, sweet girl," Kathleen said, clutching Kelly’s hand. Her other one was still in JC’s, squeezing his fingers so tight he thought they would break. "Aye. Like that. One breath in, one breath out. Aye. There you go. This babe is getting anxious to join us." 

Kelly nodded. Sweat still beaded on her forehead. She lifted her head. "The two of you out, if you will. There is a rule. Anyone with a cock is not allowed in this room. I am setting it now." She put her eyes right on Joe. "I love you, Joe, but I cannot have you seeing me like this." 

"You look lovely," Joe said. He walked to her and bent his face to her belly. There, he kissed it then stretched to kiss Kelly’s chapped lips. "I will visit the two of you soon." 

Chris was still at the table, drinking his whiskey. JC sat next to him. Joe joined them a moment later. Chris and Joe returned to their game without speaking. JC went back to watching it. Chris had handsome hands. A brush of fine dark hair covered each knuckle. His nails were blunt, chewed to skin. _A distasteful habit_ , JC thought, though he had noticed he had started it too. 

Midway between midnight and sunrise, JC put his head on the table and napped. If he got splinters in his cheek, he did not care. Joe and Chris talked back and forth, not loud enough to jar him fully awake. They toasted each other with whiskey from time to time. Soon enough, they were drunk. When JC opened his eyes again, they both had their heads on the table. 

They were all awake when Kelly began to scream. Skin prickled over JC’s neck, and he rubbed at it. Joe’s mouth was knitted into a tight line. Chris took another drink. There would be silence for only a breath before more yelling. Miraculously, Brianna and Marie slept through it. 

"Is she fine?" JC asked. 

"Aye. I think," Joe added. "I know very little about birthing. Men are kept from that." 

Kelly screamed loud enough to rouse heaven and hell together. When she was not yelling, she was moaning, a low and painful sound that turned JC’s belly. He watched Joe twist his hands together then crack each of his knuckles, one by one. Chris offered him another drink of whiskey, and Joe gladly took it. 

Time passed slowly. Joe grew more and more anxious as Kelly’s voice hitched and fell. His face sallowed. His eyes drifted shut. Chris tapped fingers over the tabletop. Underneath, his leg thumped like a frisky stallion. JC put a hand on Chris’s knee. They twined fingers and waited. 

Just as sudden as the screaming started, it ended. Heavy silence followed. Joe bowed his head and murmured, "Lord have mercy," before he began to pray. The quiet stretched as long as eternity then doubled back. Joe bowed his head to his hands and shook it. "Please," he said. 

A tiny cry rang out, then, followed by another. Soon, there was a litany of cries. Joe seemed to melt into his chair when he heard the song. He crossed himself before reaching for another swig of whiskey. Chris reached across the table and cuffed Joe on the shoulder. 

"Your son has arrived," Chris said, grinning. 

"I would suggest we wager on it, but I know for a fact only one of us has coin in his pocket," Joe said. Before Chris could defend his empty purse, Joe slapped both hands on the table and stood. With a determined face, he opened the door to the room and disappeared inside. 

"I have never been so happy to be a man," JC said. Laughing, he let Chris pull him into his lap and hold him by the hips. Beneath him, Chris was hard as stone. Determined to tease, JC squirmed on it until it grew even more and fit between his buttocks. As he hoped, Chris’s hands came around his waist and settled between his legs, holding him there. "We should celebrate." 

"Are you not tired?" 

"Not too tired to celebrate. Not only the birth of Joe’s child, but the fact that no matter how much seed you leave in me, I will never have to squeeze a babe out." Gleefully, JC laughed as Chris did the same, mouth wide, eyes closed. At once, JC was taken with the look of him. JC turned on Chris’s lap and took Chris’s face in his hands. "You are so beautiful when you laugh." 

They kissed until Joe stumbled from the room, his face bright with merriment. 

"You have a son!" Chris said, standing as soon as JC had found his footing. 

"No, another daughter!" Joe grabbed them both into a tight embrace. They danced around until they tumbled over, nearly rolling into Brianna and Marie’s bed. Still, they slept. "Oh, you should see her. She has hair darker than mine and eyes so blue they rival the sky. Kelly says they will likely turn brown in time. She is big, too, and definitely mine, Kelly assures me." 

JC laughed. "Does she have a name, Joe?" 

"Aye." Joe beamed like sunlight. "We called her Christy." 

"Joe," Chris said. His voice sounded strange, raw and unsteady in its tone. As Chris spoke, he pulled back from Joe’s arms. If he moved further, JC would grab him and force him still, but Chris merely shook his head and put a hand to Joe’s chest. "You cannot call her that." 

"I can do what I like," Joe said. 

"You stubborn fool," Chris said. 

"Aye." 

Despite Chris’s protest, Joe took them in to see the newborn babe. Even if Joe claimed otherwise, she was a tiny bundle of pink skin, swaddled in white cloth and topped with a white bonnet. Proudly, Kelly showed her off and all ten of her fingers and all ten of her toes. JC could see the exhaustion on her face, so they did not visit long. Outside, Chris took a deep breath. 

"He named her after me." Still, Chris looked dazed. 

"Joe is a smart man," JC said. By the hand, JC led him to the cottage and pushed him inside. Once the door was shut, JC kissed Chris on the mouth with all the love he had in him. "Joe could have picked no one better in the world, Chris. Will you thank him in the morning?" 

"Aye," Chris said. "I will." 

JC smiled. "Good. Now, you made a promise, and I intend for you to make good on it." 

JC licked at Chris’s mouth until it opened for him. Fanned over his back, JC’s hands lifted Chris’s shirt. Beneath, the skin was warm and tight with muscle. JC could not keep his touch from it. He crawled his fingers up the curve of Chris’s spine then stole the shirt. Chris did the same to him, kissing JC’s throat when the cloth hooked on his ears and covered his face. 

They stood breast to breast, naked above the waist. Each delicious kiss roused JC’s body until he bent into Chris like a virgin, desperate and wanton. Blindly, they stumbled to the bed. Never did their lips stop their kisses, though they bumped teeth and both hissed at the pain. 

For a moment, they battled over which body would yield to the bed first. Chris’s lingering weakness led to his submission. The mattress welcomed his weight, dipping in the middle where he rested. Each square of skin, JC kissed as his fingers unlaced Chris’s breeches and pulled them from his hips. His manhood, already stiff with anticipation, tapped JC’s chin. 

JC suckled on the tip. He kept one hand on the shaft of Chris’s manhood and the other on his belly, holding him to the bed. The stitches were healed, though JC was wary of that. In truth, he enjoyed too much possessing such control over Chris, who feared submission of his will. 

Before Chris could wet his lips with his seed, JC pulled from him and kissed up his body. Each scar, JC lovingly nuzzled. When he moved his hand to the bandage, Chris stopped him. They tangled fingers and kept their eyes matched until, finally, JC moved higher on Chris’s skin. 

They lay side by side as they kissed. In JC’s hair, Chris kept his fingers tightly looped. JC’s manhood skidded over Chris’s belly. At times, both manhoods met, and they groaned into each other’s mouths. They hooked their legs tightly together as if binding themselves. It was a shackle JC did not want to escape. When Chris put a hand on JC’s hip and turned him, JC went. 

With warm lips, Chris kissed at the base of JC’s neck through his hair. His manhood, hotter than even flame itself, settled between JC’s legs. The blunt head pressed at his body. With clumsy fingers, JC fumbled for the pot of oil and slicked his fingers. His belly tightened. 

"Can you do it like this?" Chris asked. His put his teeth on JC’s ear and softly bit it. 

"Yes," JC said. It took all his strength to pull his hand from Chris’s manhood. 

When Chris entered him, JC cried out into the pillow then moved his mouth against his own arm. There was no sting of pain, no sense of strangeness, like there had been those first few times. JC had lied to Chris then. Now, if Chris asked, JC would tell him the truth. There was nothing better in the world than to have Chris so close to him in such an intimate way. 

Without haste, Chris moved inside him. Equally lazy, JC pushed back and took him. In his ear, Chris spoke. Each word deepened the pleasure. At times, JC answered him and spoke his heart. At others, he could say nothing at all. All that left his mouth were gasps and moans until, in perfect tandem, he came off into Chris’s hand and Chris filled his body with seed. 

After, JC pulled Chris close and held him closer. Together, they breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Silence, ma petite. Rendez ton papa heureux et va dormir._  
>  "Hush, little one. Make your dad happy and go to sleep." 
> 
> _Marie, si tu m'aimes, tu fermeras tes yeux._  
>  "Marie, if you love me, you will close your eyes."


	59. Chapter 59

At daybreak on Christmas morning, Chris woke and, for once, felt the festive spirit burning in his bones. The fire had dwindled to embers, and the room was icy cool. Beneath the blankets, it felt like summertime. After years spent shivering in the cold, the change was welcome. JC warmed him in ways Chris had never thought he needed. 

"It is too early," JC murmured when Chris slipped out of his arms. Blindly, he reached, but Chris danced from his hands and kissed his fingertips instead. "And too cold." JC brought the blankets up to his nose and opened his handsome blue eyes. "What are you doing?" 

"I am going to Christmas mass. Joe tells me, if I follow the road with the sun at my back, I will easily find it." Chris reached for his cleanest breeches and pulled them on. They were followed quickly by his boots to warm his toes. "There are too many Protestants here." 

"May I come with you?" JC asked. 

"Aye, if you wish." Chris pulled on his shirt then his best and only coat. He sat at the table and tried to pour water from the pitcher into the washbasin. With the butt of his knife, he broke the ice then finally filled it. He lathered his cheeks with soap and set to shaving them smooth. "You might not be Catholic. I only assumed you were from our marriage." 

"My mother says I am," JC laced his breeches as his teeth chattered, "in my book." 

"Does she?" 

"Aye," JC said. 

"Ach, look at you." Chris grinned then patted his lap for JC to sit. His chin sprouted again, a handful of dark hairs lifting from the skin. Chris made quick work of stripping it bare. "Speaking like an Irishman. Now, if I can only convince you to call it a cock, all will be well." 

JC kissed him sweetly on the lips and spoke a melody of words in French. Whatever it was, Chris did not know, but it lit JC’s eyes and spread his smile wide across his face. It took some time, but soon enough, they were at the door and walking to the stables. They saddled their horses then mounted. As they headed out, Joe came from the house and waved them off with one hand as the other attended to relieving him in the brush. 

"That lout of an Englishman," Chris said, but he felt a smile break his lips. 

They rode until JC saw the church. Already, there were people gathered. They tied their horses, then stood. _Am I allowed to enter a place of God?_ Chris thought. Sidelong, he glanced at JC, who smiled. His fingers lingered on his hair as if JC was unsure, too. They sinned, Chris knew. Daily, they sinned, but never had Chris been happier. Never had he fit so well in his skin, scars and all. When JC looked at him, Chris felt new and pure. 

Chris stepped forward and entered the church. He was allowed. No force stopped him. They took a place at the back, near a statue of the Holy Mother. Crossing himself, Chris bowed and whispered a prayer into his hands. When it was said, he opened his palms and let it out. 

It had been months since he had spoken to God directly. Even longer since it had been in his own faith, with his own people. Most of the mass was spoken in Latin. Still, Chris understood very little of it, but he moved through it effortlessly. Years of learning by rote, it still lived in his heart. The church had never been kind to him. God, even crueler. Yet he stayed. 

It touched his brain only to be rejected. _God has not been cruel to me_ , Chris thought. _Men have been cruel to me. Life, equally so. But God? He gave me this._ Chris looked at JC beside him. He sat perched on the edge of the bench, eyes rapt with attention on the priest. When JC looked at the world with wonder, Chris felt the same freedom spread through his skin. 

Through prayer, Chris spoke his heart and split his soul. _Strike us down if we are abominations_ , Chris thought. It was blasphemy to utter it, even in his head. Yet nothing happened. They still breathed, still lived. When the mass ended, they still walked like men. 

After, they came outside to snow. It fell in flakes like the soft wool of a lamb. The morning was still early. They rode back without speaking, though he laughed. JC rode with his face to the falling snow, mouth open, pink tongue hungry. Chris’s mind felt light and free. 

Joe, Kelly and the girls had gone and come again in the time it took them. Chris entered the house to the sweet smell of cinnamon and the warmth of a cackling fire. Bread baked on the stove. Chris’s stomach growled like a pack of ravenous wolves. JC came up behind him and touched a hand to it. They stood together and swayed for a moment before Joe drove them apart with a merry hoot and a whistle. 

"I have gifts for the girls," Chris said. Already, he was headed to the door with JC close behind. In the stables, he uncovered the tarp from the gifts for the girls. JC took the ones for Brianna and Marie under his arms while Chris carried the third for Christy. Hit with a sudden nervousness, Chris could barely force his legs to move. He kept step behind JC’s long strides. 

"How in God’s name did you find the time?" Joe asked. 

"I made time," Chris said. On the table, he set the cradle. It rocked to and fro for a moment until it stilled. Joe put a hand to it and set it to rocking again. With a finger, he lined the carvings JC had done with Chris’s knife. They were wildflowers, etched deep into the wood. 

"And rocking horses for the girls," Joe murmured. He grabbed Chris round the shoulders and pulled him into a hug. Together, they watched JC on his knees, talking softly to Marie, in French, and to Brianna, in English. Kelly sat with the babe at her breast, smiling. "Chris, you did too much." 

Chris felt his face heat, but when he turned, Joe tightened his grip and held him closer. Wriggling did not free him, though he tried until Joe stepped down on the toe of his boot. "I used your wood, Joe." Chris rolled his shoulders. "I paid only with my time, of which I have plenty." 

"You humble man," Joe said. Warmly, he pressed a kiss to Chris’s temple. It lingered but a moment until it was stolen. Only then did Chris lean into him and allow himself Joe’s touch. It too was brief before JC stood from the floor and wiped the filth from his knees. 

"I have a gift for Marie." 

"And to think I thought you both poor travellers," Joe said. 

JC smiled but said nothing as he pulled a brown paper package from a cupboard. A red ribbon tied it closed. Joe stepped forward and plucked Marie from the ground. Gently, he helped her tug the bow until it unlaced. Father and child pulled the paper from the package. 

"I cannot take that," Joe said. 

"I am not giving it to you. I am giving it to Marie," JC said. With wide, brown eyes, Marie stared at him. Too young to know the importance of the dress that lay in JC’s hands, she reached for the paper that Joe held. "I do not need it, and I have not for months. But she." JC leant forward to kiss the soft round flesh of Marie’s cheek. "She has nothing else of her mother." 

Joe bowed his head. When he held out his arm, JC draped the dress over it. It was elegant with a finely stitched bodice and lace sewn to the silky fabric. Until that moment, Chris had almost forgotten it had travelled with them. No longer it did, and for that, he was glad. In recent months, JC had bloomed into his manhood. It fit better than his dresses ever had. 

JC had also made dolls for the girls from the last of his veils and his skirts. As Chris had worked the wood late at night, guided only by the slight glow of the moon, JC had sat with him. JC’s eyes had stayed dry as he cut through the cloth with Chris’s knife. 

Kelly shifted the babe to JC’s arms as she set to heating Christmas dinner. Joe knelt on the floor with his girls and chased them about until they shrieked. Chris stayed at JC’s side and looked at the tiny babe. She was alert and awake and swaddled in an embroidered quilt. 

"Would you like to have one someday?" Chris asked. 

JC turned to him and smiled. "Is there something else you have not told me, Chris?" 

Chris laughed then leaned his head on the round of JC’s shoulder. His arm snaked around JC’s narrow waist, and Chris latched himself there as secure as he could be. "No, but I could always steal you one from the step of a church. A bastard babe, if you wished it." 

"Someday, then, but certainly not soon." JC’s voice dropped. He put one hand over Christy’s ear and held the other against his arm. "I love them, but I also love sleep and laying with you whenever the urge does take me. Poor Joe is nearly ready to burst, I am told." 

"You should know. I can hear you from where I am sitting," Joe said. 

"And he does have a hand to fetch himself off with," Kelly added. 

"Ach, woman, you should not speak of such things. To think I thought you a lady." 

Kelly laughed. She ruffled the mess of Joe’s hair as she passed, a plate of mashed potatoes in her other hand. Wearing the grin of a rogue, Joe smiled up at her. When she dipped for a kiss, he pulled her into his lap and saved the potatoes before they fell. Brianna squirmed between them. When Marie hesitated, Joe hoisted her onto his lap and dotted her with kisses. 

With merry laughter and red-cheeked smiles, they ate. The new dolls took their places alongside their young mothers. Between them, they passed Christy until, finally, she drifted off into steady sleep. Chris had been the next to take her. Still, he had not held her at all. 

After supper, Chris sang a carol his mother had sung to him from infancy to boyhood, regardless of the season. Though he would have been no older than four meagre years, at the latest, he remembered each word vividly. The Coventry Carol, his mother had called it. Still, to his ears, it sounded sad. JC leaned against him and held his hand beneath the flat of the table. 

They sang until their throats were raw. Only Kelly stayed silent. She was tone-deaf, Joe believed, and teased her mercilessly until she gripped his balls and squeezed. It shut Joe’s mouth like a hammer and nail, allowing for the final carol, which JC offered. He sweetly sang of the angel Gabriel. After a time, both Joe and Chris joined with the melody and let it carry them. 

Later, they sat around and drank mead and shared a plate of sweets. JC ate until his lips were a sticky mess. Chris leaned over and suckled them clean. Chris had already warned JC that, for Chris, Christmas day would be chaste. Knowing he could not have JC only heightened his desire. Boxing Day would be one of carnal sin and unending, animal lust. 

Joe made Chris’s longing worse with a small package he slid across the table once the girls were asleep in bed. They had agreed not to exchange gifts between them. Joe had assured them both that the safe retrieval and return of Marie was all he wanted. Kelly took her gift in the form of JC’s companionship and his willingness to care for Christy at all hours. 

"Joe," Chris said unsteadily. 

"Will you just open the thing? I can assure you, my pocket is no shallower for it." 

Chris let JC pull at the ribbon until it fell away. The paper parted to reveal a square clay box. JC lifted the top from it. Inside, there was a pool of honey-like liquid. Dipping into it, JC took a dollop then rubbed it slickly between the tips of his fingers. It was entirely odourless. 

Across the table, Kelly and Joe grinned like devils. 

"No men should walk around smelling like lavender," Kelly said at Joe’s urging, "lest the whole world know their business in bed." 

"You stink of it, the two of you," Joe added, "like a flower garden in winter." 

Chris felt his skin heat from hair to toes. He forced his eyes to the wall and waited for the thumping to retreat from his ears. Beside him, JC clapped his hands together. The aria of his laughter joined with Kelly and Joe. In time, even Chris joined them, though he still blushed. 

"Before Chris’s hair should catch fire, the messenger also delivered word from Justin and Lance," Joe said. In his hand, he held a piece of folded parchment. With his knife, he sliced the wax seal from the paper then opened it. Two letters fell out. One was clearly marked only for JC. 

Joe read the one addressed to all of them. Lance was exceptionally well, he assured them, as was Justin, very carefully referred to as the "Scottish stable hand." Their bellies were full of food and drink, and the winter had been blessedly mild by the common standards. They both looked forward to seeing them all again, whenever that time did come. They would be happy to know that while Alistair had not been so lucky, Joseph the Third had left two mares pregnant. 

"Like his master," Joe said fondly. 

Kelly swatted him upside the head. 

JC unfolded his own letter then split his face with a proud smile. "It is from Justin!" 

"It looks like a blind drunkard wrote it," Chris said. At the same time, he slapped his hands over his mouth. JC elbowed him in the belly and hushed him. _I will not mock the Scotsman in his absence_ , Chris thought. Still, he gave into the temptation to add, "you know I am right." 

"I have seen your penmanship, Chris," JC said, dryly. Though Chris knew JC fought it hard, his eyes twinkled with mischief, and he just as soon smiled. Still, JC made noise about sending a reply to Justin, telling him of Chris’s teasing. Chris had no doubt JC would do just that. 

In time, they bid good night and crossed the short path to their cottage. Light snow still fell, and though it chilled him to the bone, Chris stopped to admire its simple beauty. His eyes were drawn to the dark of JC’s curls where the fine white flakes caught in the knots. 

"There are times I look at you, and you steal my breath with your beauty," Chris said. 

"Then follow me inside," JC said. As he turned, JC smiled and crooked a finger in Chris’s direction. Beneath his breeches, the small of his arse shifted. Again, Chris felt the heat of desire rush through him. It was quickly followed by the bitterness that he could not act on it due to his own lingering fears about the nature of their love. "We have not yet exchanged gifts." 

JC lit the fire as Chris sat on the bed. Gently, he rubbed a hand against his side and scratched the itch of his stitches beneath the bandage. JC came up beside him and folded a palm against him. They sat there, wordless thoughts flowing between them, until JC let his hand drop. The skin beneath burned with something Chris thought was closer to shame than actual pain. 

"I love you so much," JC said. Around Chris’s waist, he wrapped his arms and squeezed. A puff of air came from Chris’s lips, and his eyes closed against his cheeks. They rocked atop the bed until Chris felt his head dizzy. When he opened his eyes again, JC met his look. His face was light and happy. Smiling, he asked, "will we spend the whole of tomorrow in bed?" 

"Aye," Chris said. 

"Good." 

Without another word, JC reached for his wooden chest and opened it. There, wrapped in blue silk, lay a small package tied with a bow. Chris reached beneath his pillow and pulled out his own hidden gift. Still covered in a veil of comfortable silence, they exchanged presents. 

"You go first," Chris said quietly. "If you do not like it." 

"Hush your mouth. I will love it," JC said. Deftly, his fingers plucked at the knotted ribbon until it unravelled and the paper bloomed like a flower. JC lifted the knife and brought it close to his eyes. With the pads of his fingers, he traced over the etching of the lion that matched his pendent. His name, too, was carved into the metal, amid Celtics crosses and blessings. 

"A man should have a knife of his own," JC said. It did not sound at all mocking. When Chris further studied the look of his face, he realised JC meant it with all seriousness. In his hands, he turned it over, studying the intricate design. Gay with relief, Chris admitted, 

"I heckled the metalsmith who made it until he was ready to lop off my head." 

"I have no doubt of that." JC knelt up to fasten it, but Chris took the leather belt from him. With steady hands, Chris wrapped it around JC’s narrow waist then buckled it. The knife slid easily into the sheath, pulling the belt low on JC’s hips with its weight. "I love it, Chris." 

"Aye, well," Chris muttered. "I thought it time you had your own." 

Chris leaned up to kiss his lips, and JC met him with hands already reaching for Chris’s shoulders. They embraced for only a heartbeat before they pulled apart. Any longer, Chris knew, and they would be naked upon the bed and loving each other in the most unchaste of ways. 

"Open yours," JC urged. 

With JC nearly on his lap and blocking free movement, Chris worked at the bow until, finally, it came undone. The silk drifted to the floor like a feather on wind. Left behind was a velvet pouch. Chris reached inside and pulled out two pieces of glass connected by copper. 

"They are spectacles," JC said at Chris’s hesitation. "Joe said they would help you see in the distance if you wear them properly. You do not have to wear them all the time, though you would look handsome in them. I simply thought you might like to see Ireland when we travel." 

Chris held them before his eyes. The wall on the other side of the room came into sharp focus. Startled, he dropped them into his lap. He looked up to see JC watching him, his lower lip chewed between his teeth. Chris reached for him and cupped his cheek. With his thumb, he traced over JC’s mouth until it opened. 

Roughly, Chris said, "just when I think you cannot surprise me further." 

"You like them, then?" 

"Aye, I do. Plenty, too. Did you know we have a wall across the room?" 

"Oh, I knew that," JC said. "We have four of them." 

"Aye. I thought we might." 

Carefully, Chris wrapped the spectacles in their velvet pocket then put them into JC’s chest. He unwrapped the knife and belt from JC’s waist then laid them both alongside Chris’s glasses. Once the chest was closed, he set it on the ground. Hands finally free, he pulled off his shirt then kicked off his boots and breeches. At once, JC did the same then came into his arms. 

"The feel of you bare against me is no sin," Chris said, wrapping JC tight and squeezing him even tighter. They were joined by the skin save for the bandage around Chris’s chest, though it felt total. "Nor is loving you, though I know I would be told otherwise. I want you so badly I ache with it. Will you stay with me until I am sure it is midnight then let me ravish you?" 

At those words, JC smiled into his neck. Chris could feel the slice of it on his skin, wide and open. Chris held him until their arms twisted together in the tightest of knots. Into his ear, JC breathed, "aye, I can wait until then." Merrily, he laughed as sweet and light as Chris loved. 

"I need you so much," Chris murmured. "Desperately, I need you." 

Into JC’s hair, Chris left a hundred kisses. _More_ , he thought, since a shower fell of them from his lips with each touch. _Like snow_ , Chris thought. Though he could not see it, outside he knew it still snowed, just like Chris knew he loved JC, though words no longer sufficed to describe it and his heart ached in sweet pain each time he tried.


	60. Chapter 60

Three days past Christmas and an hour after supper, Joe pulled the stitching from Chris’s skin. Well and finely drunk, Chris lay on his side as Joe worked his skin. It itched more than it hurt. Still, Chris complained all he could to get at Joe’s nerves. It worked well enough. Joe kept his mouth closed, and Chris brooded in peace and quiet. JC sat at the table, reading his book. 

"There you go, you ungrateful heathen," Joe said, finally. With the flat of his hand, he slapped Chris on the arse then left without a farewell. The sting of his palm stayed, warm on Chris’s skin. In time, Chris rolled onto his back and pulled the sheets over his head. 

If he was being childish, it was only that he had every right to. Again, Chris bore the marks of a man who had bested him. Again, they would stay with him all his life. That night was blurry at best. It had all happened too fast to register. Chris remembered the men closing in on him, and the roar of Alistair as he reared his front legs and kicked. Just as soon, the squeal of his horse as they tried to burn him, taking his tail instead. Then the blade, splitting his skin, and the numbing pain that followed as Alistair turned and ran. _Smarter than his master_ , Chris thought. 

Joe could not understand what it meant to be marked. Joe's skin bore only the smallest scars, the slightest indentations of flesh from times when he had been clumsy or drunk. Even his hands were soft. Chris thought of Joe out in the world and felt his belly tighten with fear. At long last, Joe had turned from his father’s care and insisted he could tend to and provide for his family without aid. Joe could likely care for himself, Chris did not doubt that, but he knew Joe had no true understanding of how hard it would be to do so. 

Chris sat up and opened JC’s wooden chest. Carefully, he took a piece of broken mirror and looked at it. Sure enough, it reflected his eyes and the redness of the whites. Chris vowed, then and there, to never drink again however bad the pain. The look of a drunkard was as pathetic as the actions of one. Rousing his courage, Chris moved the shard of mirror beneath his arm. 

"God," Chris said. In his head, he said a quick prayer for forgiveness, then turned his eyes back to the scar. It was deep and jagged with a river of pink, raw flesh between the rough edges. Whatever Joe had done to him, it had not included lessening the damage. 

Chris was back beneath the blankets before he could say another word. Soon enough, he felt the mattress dip as JC settled on it. A warm hand snaked beneath the blankets and rubbed over the small of Chris’s back. It traced his spine then the round of his arse, gentle like snow. 

"That scar you carry is mine," JC said. "If I could take it from you, I would." 

Chris shook his head against the soft down of the pillow. "No. I could not bear that." 

"Then wear it proudly, if you can. If you cannot, remember it saved my life." 

"You make it impossible to wallow in misery, I hope you know that." 

JC fitted himself against Chris’s back. His skin was sticky warm from the continual burn of the fire and the stuffiness of the room. Still, Chris spread his legs so JC would fit flush against him and did not mind at all the extra stifling heat that JC brought with him. Though they both still wore their breeches, Chris could feel JC stiffening against him. His own cock responded. 

"You know I think you handsome," JC said. With a hand, he squeezed Chris’s side. 

"Aye. You have told me that a few times." 

"I also know you think I am blinded by love, and I admit that maybe I am, but I give you my word, Chris, that even if you come to me legless, armless and with no hair on your head, I will still love you. This mark," JC moved his hand over it, "fills my heart with pride." 

"Pride?" 

"Yes." JC kissed him below the ear. "That you have lived so hard, and that you are strong enough to bear it how ever terrible it might be. That day in Lance’s cottage when you showed me your scars, I told you that you were a better man than you think. I believe that more than ever." 

"You are a better man than me." 

"Even if that is true, you are a better man than most. I know this like I know my heart." 

Chris’s throat clogged, so he could not speak. He nodded instead. 

Chris closed his eyes as JC moved his mouth over his shoulders and across his back. His cock was stiff already as it pressed into the mattress. Gently, Chris thrust his hips at it then stilled when JC put a firm hand on his hip. Those same fingers dipped into the front of his breeches and gripped him tight. Chris rolled into the touch until, finally, the laces were undone. 

JC took all the time in the world as he moved his mouth over Chris’s shoulders and his hand between Chris’s legs. When they were fully skin to skin, Chris understood how much more he felt without the bandage between them. JC’s nipples were two tight points against Chris’s back. His daring cock pushed at Chris with its blunt head, nudging him behind the balls. 

Chris put his mouth on his arm and breathed into it. Pleasure streaked across him and pooled between his legs where it grew as tall as a tree, shadowed only by the height of his love for JC. It was then that Chris knew what must be said, so he opened his mouth and did it. 

"If you wish to, you can." 

Behind him, JC stilled. 

"In me. You can go, if you like. I will not stop you," Chris said. His skin flushed as hot as the sun, and he felt like a virgin begging to be made a man. "I want you there," Chris added. 

"Are you sure?" JC asked. 

"Aye." Chris looked back at him and kept his eyes firm. "The time is right for it." 

At once, JC’s smile spread. He rolled Chris to his back and came into his arms. There, he settled against Chris with a weight that held down his fears. They kissed right then and there, deeply desperate and as wet as the rainfall in spring. Chris clung to him and wrapped his legs around JC’s waist. Again, JC’s cock poked against him, a daring rogue that knew what it wanted. 

"How is it best?" 

"I like it all ways," JC said. They kissed again at that. Chris buried his hand in JC’s hair and held their mouths together long after his chest ached for lack of air. When they parted, JC kept his fingers on Chris’s face. "I think it easiest if you perch above me then lower yourself." 

"I want to know what you like best," Chris said. 

JC smiled. "I love it when you look at me, when our eyes meet as you push deep inside." 

"Like that, then." 

Chris held his breath as JC slicked himself with the unscented oil. They had used a great deal of it since Christmas, rutting at each other like rabbits. Chris’s toes curled as he waited. Finally, JC moved to him and held himself by his arms over Chris’s body. At once, Chris’s legs lifted to circle JC’s narrow waist, but JC took his legs and lifted them to his shoulders instead. 

"It will feel better this way, so long as you let me hold your weight," JC said. 

"Aye." Chris swallowed the lump in his throat and moved his hands to JC’s arms. There, he curled his fingers around the rise of JC’s muscles. _He has earned them_ , Chris thought. No longer was JC the weak, slight boy who had come to him so many months ago. "Do it, then." 

JC did not. Instead, they kissed for what felt like years. Chris moved his hands up and down the lengths of JC’s hair then buried them in his curls. The rise and fall of JC’s back, the long dip of his spine, all of it Chris traced with his fingers. In time, his hips began to lift, and it was then that he felt JC against him. A flash of pain behind his eyes, and Chris knew JC was in. 

He kept his eyelids tightly together as he took harsh breaths. "It hurts." 

"It does at first," JC said. Chris could hear the guilt in JC’s voice and knew at once what it meant. _He lied to me then_ , Chris thought, but he understood the reason for it. If his mouth had waited for his brain, Chris would have caught the words before they escaped. "It gets better." 

"I should hope it does," Chris murmured. He kept his voice light. "What should I do?" 

"Relax, if you can. Breathe so deep that it fills your chest then let it go." JC moved his mouth over Chris’s lips and wet them with his breath. Chris lifted his tongue to touch at him, and JC met it briefly before he said, "and let me kiss you until you feel nothing but that." 

In time, Chris felt the tension ease from his hips. When JC slid fully in, it felt as though he had always fit there. Gently, they moved together as they shared hot kisses. In and out, Chris felt every glide of JC’s cock echo in his own. With a hand between them, JC brought him off. In short time, JC followed, gasping his release into Chris’s mouth. Chris swallowed it down. 

They settled side by side once JC was gone from him. There, they kissed and touched, bringing each other off a second time with their hands. With a greedy tongue, Chris cleaned their hands then lapped at JC’s flat belly until he laughed. They rested then, quiet until JC fell asleep. 

Rest did not come quite so quickly to Chris. Suddenly, the room felt hotter than he could bear, and the ache in his arse heightened to painful discomfort. In the dark, he quickly dressed. Once outside, Chris breathed easier, though his body was still heavy with thought. 

The horses neighed as he entered the stables. A lit lamp already hung from the wall. 

"You should be in bed." 

Blood raced through his ears as his heart jumped to his throat. With a hand to his chest, he turned to see Joe sitting against the wall, a ball of cloth held in arms. Wordlessly, he pulled back the corner of the blanket. Against his chest, little Christy slept. Her face was wet with tears. 

"She has a voice on her, I can tell you that," Joe said. "Sit with me, Chris." 

Chris settled in the hay beside him, though he could not stop from wincing when his arse hit bottom. It was the perfect place to bring a wailing babe. The air was warm from the animals, and the covered floor was comfortable enough to rest in. Still, a chill wind blew in from outside. Chris huddled close to Joe. He was careful not to wake Christy from her dreams. 

"Oh, but she is a pretty thing, is she not?" 

Joe smiled. "Aye. She is. Though I expect her to be wild, if her name fits her right." 

Chris’s finger itched to rub against her round cheek or ruffle her tuft of black hair. Instead, he smiled then leaned more fully against Joe. "I never gave you my thanks for it. For naming her after me. It made me proud, though I still think you a fool. There are better men." 

"Perhaps once that would have been true, but you lived up to your word, Chris. You promised you would try, and you did well with it." Joe bumped Chris with his shoulder. It was light enough that it did not rattle the babe awake. "That boy loves you so much, Chris." 

"Aye, and I love him." Haplessly, Chris grinned at his knees. "He buggered me tonight." 

"Ach. You take the romance out of roses, Chris." Still, Joe laughed and laid an arm across Chris’s shoulders. So many nights, they had huddled together for warmth, a miserable bastard of a traveller and his lustful but noble companion. "Your first time, I take it." 

"Aye. Like that at least, him doing me and not the other way around. It hurt something fierce, man," Chris confessed. He shifted his arse on the floor then jumped when Joe slapped him on it. When Chris moved to defend himself, Joe gestured at his daughter, and Chris felt the ire rush from him. "There is no sympathy to be had by you, is there?" 

"You might try Kelly," Joe said. His eyes twinkled with mischief. Whatever he said next, Chris knew no good would come of it. "She still thumps me upside the head from time to time for the pain she felt when she lost her maidenhead. She will likely try the same for the babes." 

Chris smiled. It was helpless, the way it touched his face and spread. Still, there were deeper feelings in him beyond the memory of bed. "I feel like a different man," Chris said. He spoke it to his hands. "I cannot go back, can I? To being that man I was, with or without JC." 

"No, I do not think you can." 

"Did you know all along?" Chris bit at his finger, chewing at the nail. He did not want to look at Joe when he asked. Whatever the answer was, Chris was frightened of it. On the one hand, Chris did not want to think he was obvious about his tastes, but on the other, Chris did not want to believe that Joe could be wrong about him. "About my preferences?" 

Joe shook his head. "You kept me fooled for longer than I want to admit, but Lance knew. In time, I recognised your behaviour for what it was. I could not have told you. You would never have believed me, Chris. That church did something to your mind that I could not undo, though I tried. Oh, how I tried. You listened to me in time, and for that, I thank you." 

"You let me marry who I thought I was a woman," Chris said. That had always puzzled him, when he thought back upon those few blissful weeks. _Hardly weeks at all_ , Chris thought, _mere days_. If Joe knew so much, why had he suggested marriage and given Chris his blessing? 

"You were happy. I almost did not recognise it, but there it was, bright as day, on your face. There are few things in this world, Chris, that I wish for more than for you to be happy." Joe looked down at wee Christy and kissed her furry head. "Though to tell you the truth, I did not think you would agree so easily. When you did, I admitted that, perhaps, I had been wrong." 

Chris kept his eyes on Christy’s sweet and peaceful face. "You were not." 

"Aye," Joe said, "but you made me question my beliefs. No man had done that before." 

"I am still fearful," Chris admitted. "I do not want to go to hell." 

"If you go, I will be right behind you, but I do believe that God made us as he saw fit." 

"He did well with you. So well, Joe," Chris said. "You know I love you?" 

"Aye, I know. I love you, too." Joe took so deep a breath that Chris felt it in his own chest. When he whistled it out, it sounded like music. "I keep trying to think of my life without you. I know we complained like widows together, but you showed me the world, Chris. I owe you so much." 

"I am going nowhere." 

"Aye, you are. Even if you do not know it yet, I do. You are not ready to settle, and JC has not seen enough of this world. It would be cruel to force you both to stay with me and my family, though I know you would if I asked." Joe grabbed Chris so tight against him that the air rushed from Chris’s lips. It left his chest aching and empty. "I will cry like a babe when you leave." 

"I will cry like a babe now, if you do not hold your tongue." 

Joe laughed. "Peace, then. I will not mention it again." 

Chris nodded. Still, his eyes felt warm, and he rubbed at them until they cooled. 

"Though I ask one thing of you, Chris, and you can deny me if you wish." Joe’s face was serious. "Kelly and I have talked it over. The church says you cannot be the godfather of my daughters, but if anything should happen to me and Kelly, will you care for my girls anyway?" 

"Joe," Chris said. 

"You do not need to raise them, if you truly do not want to be a father. Kelly’s mother would do it, and if not her, then my own. But I need to know they will be raised as I would want it. I love my family, but they will never understand why I have chosen to live this life." 

Chris swallowed his belly back down. "And I do? I am only so free with JC at my side." 

"Aye," Joe said. "With or without JC, I want my girls to know you, and you are one of the few I have left to ask." Chris lifted an eyebrow. "Aye, I did ask Lance once, and he refused. I understood his reasons, though I did not agree with them. I will ask JC, if you pass on it." 

"I would likely get them anyway." Chris nodded shortly. "Then aye, I consent." 

"I knew you would," Joe said. "Do you want to hold her, then? You have yet to lay a hand upon her. Much longer, Chris, and I will think this babe terrifies a grown man." 

"I suppose I could." Chris held out his arms. Carefully, Joe settled her there and showed him how to protect her soft head. She smelled sweet and clean. Her hair was as fine as silk, and her skin, as soft as wool. Christy sighed happily in his embrace and did not wake. 

They sat and spoke a while longer until, finally, Joe bid goodnight with a wide yawn. Before following the path to bed, Chris fed the horses and brushed them down. With a puff of air, he blew out the lamp then returned to the cottage. His arse still ached with JC’s imprint. 

"Your toes are cold," JC murmured when Chris slipped beneath the covers. 

"Will you let me warm them beneath your legs, then?" 

With a happy sigh, JC lifted his knees. Chris slid his feet beneath them then curled around JC’s body until his ear was at JC’s heart. It beat firm and steady like a drum. Chris slept then, feeling more a man than he ever had in his life, with a pain in arse and a scar on his chest.


	61. Chapter 61

On the eve of the new year, JC read the final words of his book. He could barely see them for the tears in his eyes, and they were not in English. While he still could not read in French, he still knew what they said: je suis désolé. _I am sorry_. At that, JC bowed his head into his hands, and he cried harder than he had in his life. Chris sat behind him with a hand on his back. 

"Tell me what it said," Chris murmured. With his fingers, he pulled JC’s hair from his face and smoothed it back against his head. JC leaned into him. His throat felt huge, and he could not speak. Into the crook of Chris’s neck, JC shook his head. "Come now. Get it out." 

"She offered apologies," JC said, "like she blamed herself." 

"She likely did, but do not take responsibility for that." Chris pressed a kiss to JC’s brow. He kept a hand on JC’s cheek, and JC clung to that arm as if it could return him to sanity. It nudged him slightly, which was enough. "Mothers do such things. They cannot help it." 

"She knew she was dying. For months, she knew, and I never did." 

"She loved you," Chris said. "She kept it from you to spare you the pain." 

"I never asked for that. I never wanted her to die alone and in fear." 

"You were with her till the end, JC. I doubt she was either. I know I would be neither lonely nor fearful, with you holding my hand as I passed." 

JC’s eyes wet again, blindingly hot. Firmly, he pushed at Chris’s chest with his hand. No distance grew between them. Chris’s hold on him was tighter than he liked, but still not tight enough. If JC could have, he would have climbed into Chris’s skin and slept there for years until the sorrow was gone. Instead, JC curled against him and wept upon his shoulder. 

"You should not say such morbid things," JC muttered, finally. He wiped his eyes on Chris’s shirt then sniffled until his nose was dry. Chris offered his sleeve, but JC politely declined. "If I am lucky, I will pass before you and never have to witness it." 

"If we are both lucky, we will go in bed when we are old and well-lived men." 

JC’s belly heaved, and he dared a look in Chris’s direction. His eyes were kind if not also sad, and his mouth twisted wryly. "I did not mean it like that," JC said quietly. "I hope we do go together, whenever that might be. A lifetime from now, I hope. I want you much longer." 

"Rest easy. I know what you meant." Chris shifted in his seat, so they faced each other. He put his hands on JC’s hips. "Now, you have been at that book for hours. What more have you learned of your mother and yourself? Tell me everything you remember, so I know it, too." 

"How much have I told you already?" 

"At last listen, she had lovingly detailed your adventures in boyhood. Girlhood, I suppose. It has been quite some time since you shared with me, which I do not fault you for," Chris added quickly. JC snapped shut his mouth and waited. "But what secrets have you learned?" 

"I learned everything," JC said, "and I still do not know what to think of it all." 

JC reached for the book. Its familiar weight was heavy in his hands, and he turned it over until it sat facing up in his lap. Looking at it made his heart ache, but he opened the book to the final pages. JC thought he knew when his mother realised she was dying. The tone had abruptly changed in them. The words became much harder to follow, so light at times he could hardly see them, so twisted at others that they were illegible even when he could. 

"It makes me want to cry just to look at it," JC said. He ran the tips of his fingers over the hard leather edge of the cover. Each sheet of paper rubbed like the roughest sand over his thumbs. "And I cannot be sure I even understand these last few pages. They are so hard to read." 

"Tell me what you do know." 

JC swallowed the lump in his throat, though it turned his belly once it dropped. He let the stroke of Chris’s hands on his hips and back soothe his frayed nerves. "I think I have family, living family, in France. My mother’s sister, and their two brothers. She left them behind." 

Chris’s eyes were golden yellow. He nodded. 

"I think they know about me. My mother gave me a family name, but I do not know how to say it." JC bit his lip, drawing it in between his teeth. "I think it must sound like _Chasez_." 

"Joshua Chasez," Chris said softly. Despite the tears in his eyes, JC dipped his head. He did not mind so much when they trickled down his cheeks, for Chris drank each one with his lips and dried his face with his breath. "That is you, then. She gave you what your father would not." 

"That is not the whole of it, nor the worst of it, either." JC leaned forward until Chris’s arms around came around him and held him. JC squirmed until he was nearly on Chris’s lap. They tangled together like an undoable knot. "She meant to send me to France when she felt I was old enough and she was ready to let me go. That is why I can speak French and why she was so secretive about it. If my father found out, he would have known what she intended. She was set to betray her husband for me." JC closed his eyes. "She died too soon to see that it happened." 

"And if I had not come along," Chris murmured. 

"I would still be there, not knowing there were people waiting for me," JC said. "They wait still. I doubt they even know that she has passed away, though it has been more than a year. That hurts me deeply, Chris, to think about. They do not even know their sister is gone." 

"Then you must tell them yourself." 

JC looked up so fast they nearly bumped heads. 

"You know I would follow you to the end of the world," Chris said. 

JC’s heart raced in his chest. "Neither of us has ever left Ireland." 

"Then we are long overdue to see what lies beyond this land." Chris’s voice hitched, and JC knew he struggled for control. JC felt his own wild fancies rising to the surface of his flushed, damp skin. Chris gripped his hands and held them. "I am not ready to settle, JC, not now. If you are, I will shut my mouth and let you do what you want, but I am born to travel." 

JC fought and lost with the laugh in his throat. It rose giddily from his lips. While he still feared he would cry, he knew they would be happy tears. He could hardly contain the love that swelled in his chest. "Do you mean it, Chris? With all your heart, do you tell me the truth?" 

"With all my heart, I do." 

"I love you," JC said. He kissed at Chris’s face until he was laughing. Even then, JC did not stop. JC kissed the round of Chris’s cheeks, the fur of his chin, the spread of his lips. His hands shook on Chris’s head, even as he buried his fingers deep into his hair to steady. When every bit of skin was covered, they hugged instead. "You make me such a happy man." 

Chris laughed. "We have decided, then?" 

"Aye." JC squeezed him again. "We have." 

"We will wait till spring," Chris said. He combed his fingers through JC’s hair. His smile brightened his face so lovely, and JC was taken with how handsome Chris was again. Even if Chris did not believe it, JC knew it true. "And you will have to write a letter telling them we are coming. Joe knows how to write in French as well as speak it. He will help you." 

JC’s belly dropped to his knees. "We will have to tell Joe." 

"He knows," Chris assured him. "He knows, and he wishes us well." 

"We will return, too. I could not stay away from Ireland all my life. I love it here." 

"Nor could I," Chris agreed. "We will come back." 

"I can teach you French," JC said, moving his hands over the arc of Chris’s arms. 

"And I will learn it as much as my stubborn head will let me. It is about time," Chris said, "that I let you teach me everything you know. As you have proven, you are always right, and I will do well to remember that." Chris’s face split in a smile. "Oh, how I love you, JC." 

They embraced again, clinging like love-struck limpets. Between them, the book poked into JC’s belly. JC lifted it. Chris folded his own fingers with JC’s and helped him hold it. Together, they looked at it. Now that JC knew its secrets, it did not seem such a terrible thing. Between those covers, there was sadness written in ink and tears. It was a woeful tale of a boy who lived as a girl to save his life, but the story had ended happy, despite it all. 

JC needed only to look Chris in the eyes to know that completely.


	62. Chapter 62

Spring came earlier than they would have liked. It was warm enough that JC could run barefoot through the grass and not catch a chill on his toes. The morning they were all set to leave, he played with the girls in the meadow. Marie, who had grown taller than Brianna and just as pleasantly plump, spoke to him in quick bursts of both French and English. Brianna added to her cries until the three of them were as excited as young foxes and just as wild. 

When Kelly called for them, JC took a girl under each arm and carried them back as they squealed. As soon as their feet touched the ground, they raced off. Brianna fell time and time again, but Marie helped her after each stumble. Winter had bonded them as sisters. Each day, they asked if Christy could play with them, but she was much too young. Kelly was right, though. Christy’s eyes had darkened to a dark brown. She was an alert and happy babe. 

"Have you seen Chris?" JC asked as Kelly and Kathleen set food down on the table. Overhead, they were covered by a cloudless sky. Inside, the house was empty save for the pieces of furniture they could not fit in the caravan. At Joe’s request, his family had brought it with them to the wedding. The sight of it carried bittersweet memories. 

"The two of them are bawling their eyes out in the stables." 

"Men," JC said. He shook head in mock dismay. Caught by wind, curls veiled his eyes, and JC pushed at them with an idle hand. Kelly smiled as Kathleen pulled a length of cloth from her skirts and tied back his hair with nimble fingers. Still, he could feel a few errant twists brushing his neck, but it was no longer in his face. 

Merrily, Kelly laughed as she filled their cups with water. "Aye. Men are fools, I can tell you that. I know it, and still I love one." At Kelly’s words, an unspoken flicker of humour flashed between them. Kathleen had not been told of JC’s love for Chris or their relationship, but JC believed she knew already. Sometimes, JC thought he caught her smiling at them. 

When Chris and Joe emerged from the stables, their eyes were red from crying. They walked arm in arm for three steps before Joe jumped on Chris and wrestled him to the ground. They yelled at each other like fools before Chris escaped Joe’s arms and stepped on his fingers. Two steps later and they were back at it again, acting like boys. 

JC felt his own chest ache at the thought of leaving. It was worse than it had been when they had left Lance’s land, but he also felt stronger. Chris needed him to push him just as JC had needed Chris months ago to do the same for him. Despite his nerves, excitement swirled in his belly at the thought of France. In his pack, a single letter sat folded between the covers of his book. It had arrived by messenger a fortnight before and bore a wax seal that said, "Chasez." 

They ate together, telling stories and laughing. Under the table, JC held Chris’s hand. His fingers were damp and clammy. When Chris looked at him, JC smiled brighter than he knew he felt, but Chris’s eyes lit in response. That lifted JC’s heart, and he knew Chris would be fine. 

Not another word was spoken as Kathleen lifted the girls into the caravan. Kelly would sit up front with the babe swaddled to her breast while her mother would stay with Marie and Brianna, who were tucked between the front seat and the mound of furniture and belongings Joe had packed. They had a family of dolls waiting for them, and JC knew that Joe had bought a bag of sweets to keep them happy. 

Only when Joe stepped toward him did JC feel his eyes well with tears. 

Joe shifted his gaze to Chris, where he stood talking to Kelly and Kathleen. Both women were a breadth taller than he was, and Chris had to look up to speak with them. JC had not noticed until then. There were a great many things he did not have time to notice. 

Quietly, Joe asked, "you will watch him for me?" At that, he turned his look to JC’s face. 

Wordlessly, JC nodded. Chris would never leave his sight. 

"I know." Joe gathered JC in his arms and held him firm. "My heart is breaking, JC." 

"Mine, too." JC pressed his hands into Joe’s back and moved his face to Joe’s neck. They wobbled unsteadily. JC braced his legs for their double weight, and they stood there, hugging. "We will come back. It should not be more than a year or two. We belong here." 

"Two years is a lifetime," Joe mumbled. "You will come back to me safe and sound." 

"Aye," JC agreed, "we will." 

In time, they parted, though they did so with great reluctance. Like a dance, Joe moved to Chris as Kelly and Kathleen came to him. Kelly wrapped him around the waist and squeezed him as tight as she could with the babe between them. JC kissed them on the cheeks then took Christy, rocking her in his arms. She was the prettiest babe he had ever seen, and JC knew, with the name she proudly bore that she would grow just fine. With Marie and Brianna, JC left another smattering of kisses then tickled their bellies until they giggled. Kelly took her place at the front of the caravan as JC felt himself enfolded in Kathleen’s arms. He was happy that she was going to the west with Kelly and Joe. JC knew how lonely Kelly was for female company. 

Close by, Chris and Joe stood together, face to face with their hands clasped between them. They moved their lips, so JC knew that they spoke, but the words came so quietly that there was not even a hint of them on the warm breeze. Tightly, they embraced and buried their faces in each other’s shoulders. Chris and Joe stood there so long that JC wondered if they would ever willingly part, but in time, Joe stepped away and turned his back on Chris. Chris did not follow him nor did he watch Joe leave. JC touched Joe’s hand as he passed. 

"Just love him," Joe said. His voice was urgent, and his grip was tight on JC’s fingers. "With all your heart and soul, just love him as he deserves." 

"I do," JC assured him, "and I will forever." 

Joe nodded, and JC saw the gleam of tears on his cheeks. They embraced one final time then, without another word, Joe climbed into his seat and clicked his tongue at Joseph the Third and Dolan. Both horses stepped forward, and off they went. Kelly, Kathleen and the girls waved at them, and JC waved back. When they were but specks on the horizon, Chris came up behind him. He put a wet face to the back of JC’s neck and firm hands around his hips. 

"Are you ready?" Chris asked. 

JC bowed his head and put his fingers over Chris’s touch. "I am, Chris." 

They checked their packs then tightened their saddles. Hidden between the horses, they kissed a long time before they parted. Chris laid a hand over the pendent around JC’s neck and held it there. JC knew that Chris could feel the nervous beat of his heart beneath his skin. When he put his own hand over Chris’s heart, JC felt the same mirrored back. 

JC smiled. "I love you madly, Chris." 

"Aye," Chris said, "I love you, too. Forever, I will." 

They had come so far together, and JC knew they had so much further left to go. 

****

**The End.**


	63. Chapter 63

**A brief history of Ireland  
As it applies to _The Book of Secrets_ :**

**1649** | _17 Jan._ |  Ormond and Confederates sign peace treaty.  
---|---|---  
| _30 Jan._ |  Execution of Charles.  
| _2 Aug._ |  Ormond defeated by Parliamentarians at Rathmines.  
| _15 Aug._ |  Oliver Cromwell arrives at Dublin, as civil and military Governor of Ireland.  
| _11 Sept._ |  Massacre at Drogheda.  
| _11 Oct._ |  Massacre at Wexford.  
| _20 Oct._ |  Owen Roe O’Neill and Ormond combine.  
| _6 Nov._ |  Death of Owen Roe O-Neill.  
**1650** | _27 Mar._ |  Kilkenny surrenders to Cromwell.  
| _26 May._ |  Cromwell returns to England, Ireton taking over.  
| _11 Dec._ |  Ormond leaves for France.  
**1652** | _12 Aug._ |  ‘Act for the Settling of Ireland’  
**1653** | _June-Sept_ |  Survey and allocation of forfeited Irish lands, followed by arrangements for transplantations (‘Act of Satisfaction’, 26 Sept)  
| _16 Dec._ |  Cromwell Lord Protector  
**1657** | _9 Jun._ |  Settlement Act ‘for the Assuming, Confirming and Settling of Lands and Estates in Ireland’.  
| _26 Jun._ |  ‘Act for Convicting, Discovering and Repressing of Popish Recusants’.  
**1660** | _Feb._ |  Parliament restored in Dublin.  
| _14 May._ |  Charles II proclaimed king.  
  
\- Modern Ireland 1600-1972, R. F. Foster


End file.
